The Resilient
by Mel88
Summary: Sequel to "An Aversion to Change." Voldemort's world is one of corruption, greed and betrayal. But there must be those who stand up to totalitarianism, who say no when others submit, and who survive despite their conditions. There must be the resilient.
1. Ch 1: Azkaban

**Author's Note: **Please be aware that this story contains graphic violence, torture, strong language, character death, explicit sexual situations, and non-consensual sexual situations. Read at your own risk.**  
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**Azkaban  
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The night seemed endless. The slow rattle of Dementors' breath and the consequent high-pitched whimpering of their victims were Hermione's constant companions; always close, but, by some grace, never so near that she was affected. She did not know which was worse: the draining, suicidal feeling of their nearness, or the threat of it.

She supposed it was because she was silent. The other prisoners howled and moaned constantly. They screamed and ripped at their clothes with reckless abandon. At least, she thought it was clothes they were tearing at. But when she heard a wet ripping sound accompanied by an almost inhuman scream…well, she could only assume the worst.

Possibly worse than the tearing was the scratching. She had hardly arrived and already she knew the pattern. Someone would start scratching at the stone walls of a cell, lightly at first. The intensity would slowly increase. Soon, all that could be heard throughout the hall were the echoes of a desperate man trying to escape, literally trying to claw his way up or through the thick stone walls. Eventually, his nails would break. Sometimes Hermione could hear the snap, other times only the man's wail of pain. Either way, it conjured an unwelcome image: that of dirty and broken bits of nail stuck into a bloodied chunk of scarred wall while a man, hunched over his sanguine flesh, crying and cursing, slipped slowly into insanity. It was nauseating.

But their noise was what attracted the Dementors. Hermione wanted to be strong for them, to tell them to be quiet. But as soon as she would summon the nerve to crawl forward from the corner of her cell and send a quick warning through the cold, black iron bars, she would hear the soft swish of an ethereal cloak and the slow rattle of air. She knew it was too late.

It was always too late.

She got no sleep. She could not stop thinking about the day prior, the day she single-handedly consigned all of humanity to a grim fate through a series of foolish but almost unavoidable mistakes. Whenever she closed her eyes, jarring and disjointed scenes from the battle flashed before her eyes: Voldemort choking Ginny, her red-headed, fair-skinned friend turning blue from the limited oxygen supply, Harry's look of rage and raw fear, the slow arc of his wand hitting the ground, two thin beams of green light. The bodies of her best friends falling stiffly to the ground in death.

Her heart wrenched and she was nearly overcome with the urge to sob. Hermione wanted to stop thinking about it. But the train was in motion, and there was no getting off until it completed its journey.

Next came Draco's vague and mystifying words in her ear: I had no choice, I had no choice, this was the only way. Hermione, I love you. It was the last one that confused her. He acted so cold, so _heartless_ when he talked to Voldemort. He sneered and spat and it was like he had never changed. But to say he loved her? To repeat it like a mantra as he pinned her to the ground to stop her interference, to stop her from saving her friends?

Then he sentenced her to Azkaban with only a moment's hesitation. He hit her across the face – she could still feel the unforgiving sting of his hand – and apologized before stunning her.

No, he did not simply apologize. He begged her forgiveness.

What did it all mean?

For the life of her, Hermione could not figure it out. Draco's actions were full of contradictions. Was he glad she was in pain or was he sorry for what he did? Did he want her dead or did he love her? Nothing made sense.

It was this discrepancy that kept Hermione sane that first night. Instead of blindly accepting what Draco had done, she thought about it, mulled over it, _obsessed_ over it. She thought about it from every angle, using every possible scenario she could imagine until she was mentally exhausted. But whatever she came up with always had a few unavoidable flaws that would leave her suspicious and full of doubt. She believed there was more to what he did than what she saw. And, in some convoluted and complex way, this gave her hope.

One hand cupped the self-made pouch she fashioned out of a bit of cord and a scrap of her old clothing. The other cradled her head. Tears of frustration snuck from her swollen, red eyes. Resisting the urge to cry out loud, she reduced her sobs to barely audible murmurs of true pain. Hermione did not know how long she cried, nor did she care. But she was physically drained after the ordeal. With eyes wide open and trained to the bars of her cell, she stayed awake all night, accompanied by the screams-turned-whimpers of the nearly departed.

XOX

The hope Hermione found on her first night remained with her, although it was becoming admittedly hard to keep. Each day she spent in her dark little corner of Hell felt like two. She had nothing to do but think and, when she was lucky, eat the rotten food the guards passed through the iron bars.

For the first week, Hermione attempted to contact the prisoners in cells adjacent to her own. So far, she had little luck. But that did not deter her from trying. She waited until the Dementors were far off and shuffled closer to the bars. Her keen brown eyes, now well-adjusted to the perpetual darkness in which she lived, spotted a slight shift in the shadows across the narrow hall.

That meant the occupant was still alive; the first requirement of her mental checklist was fulfilled. She had not tried talking to this particular man yet. For an insane minute, she thought he would be different.

Pressing her face directly against the filthy, cold metal, she whispered over to him. "Hey. Hey, you there! Psst!" Per usual, she received no response. She expected silence. Undeterred, she continued. "My name is Hermione Granger. What's yours?"

Silence.

"No matter." She waved off the silence with an impatient gesture. No one ever talked back. At first, it was disconcerting: she was not used to being ignored. But after repeated attempts, she had come up with a monologue. She continued with it now. "Do you know why you're in here? I know why I am: I was betrayed. That's why I'm here. I don't really believe my betrayer, though. Isn't that silly? I don't think he meant to throw me in here…I know, you must think I'm crazy. But I know him and I think there was something else going on. I can't know until I get out of here, though."

There was a soft swish – a Dementor was close. Hermione shifted quickly to the back of her cell and hugged the wall, keeping her wide eyes trained on the hallway. She watched the Dementor drift by and once it was out of range, reassumed her position at the bars. "Hey! Hey, are you still with me? Because I have an idea! We need to escape. You and I! We can get out of this place. We can formulate a plan – we have the time! Just think about it…to be free again! Can you help me, please?"

She thought she saw him move. Taking this as a positive sign, Hermione spoke more frantically, the volume of her voice increasing; she had never gotten this far before. "Please," she begged. "Please, we can escape together. I just need to get out of here. I need to see if my family is still alive." Tears welled in her eyes as her words became desperate. "I need to see if my friends are okay. _I need to kill Voldemort!_ Please! Make some sign that you hear me!"

By this point, her words were nearly drowned in quiet sobs and tears streamed freely down her face. Just as she thought that her efforts were in vain, the man across from her moved closer to the hallway separating them. Her knuckles were white as she gripped the bars in anticipation. Who she saw nearly made her shriek.

It was Neville Longbottom. But it was not the Neville she remembered. This Neville looked like he had been put through a shredder. His face was bloodied and broken. The majority of his teeth were missing. One wide, white-rimmed eye looked out at her while the other was merely a puckered socket crusted over with dried blood. She held back her gorge as he ran a dirty hand, which was missing three fingers (she could see the bones barely poking through the bloodied stumps), through his matted hair. They lifted an entire flap of skin from his head, like his flesh was some sort of unnatural wig.

"Neville," Hermione said, her voice cracking. "Neville, it's me. It's Hermione. Talk to me, Neville. Talk to me!" She did not notice, but she was shaking violently.

For a moment, Neville looked thoughtful and sane. But that moment passed quickly when he opened his mouth. Instead of words came the most hideous scream Hermione had ever heard. It was loud and deep but somehow screeching, sending needles coursing over her body. She jumped and scuttled to the back of her small room, unable to tear her gaze away from Neville's grotesque visage. His eye was open wide and he gripped the bars of his prison, pressing his face against them, trying to force it through. The loose flap skin and hair bunched and moved backwards, exposing his skull. Blood poured from the agitated wound, coursing down his face like a crimson waterfall. Spittle flew from his open mouth and dripped down his chin as he held his haunting scream.

The Dementors came with merciful quickness. At least ten of them swarmed Neville's cell, their rattling breaths taking all the heat out of Hermione, forcing her to relive her most painful days. She clutched her head and screamed with him, inhumanly, the sound coming from some primal being within her. It was instinctive, high-pitched, loud, and terrible. Hermione was terrified. She just let go.

Somehow, through the screams and the memories, she was able to keep consciousness. Through the icy chill of the Dementor's presence, she watched in horror as one leaned close down to Neville. The rattle intensified and Hermione knew what had happened.

Neville's screaming instantly stopped. She heard a dull crack as his body hit the floor. Then, all was silent, save for the gentle swish of the Dementor's cloaks moving away from the soulless shell.

Hermione shook violently from the back of her cell, her teeth nearly biting through her tongue. Neville's body lay on the floor where the Dementors dropped him. His one eye was open in almost comedic surprise. It was trained directly on Hermione. From the angle at which his head was tilted, Hermione knew that he was dead.

Too stunned to cry, throat too raw to scream any longer, she crawled into the farthest corner of her tiny cell and faced the wall. She tried to block out the sound of the guards taking her dead friend away and their obtuse jokes about throwing him over the cliff, but they ripped at her anyway. Once they left, she curled into herself. She flinched as she imagined the splash of a body being hurled into the sea.

She never attempted to speak again.

XOX

Because of her silence, she was almost sure that the guards thought she was insane. And because of their assumption, and Hermione's constant wariness, she heard things that other prisoners may never have known.

For example, she learned that there were two main parts of Azkaban: one for the lower security prisoners and another for higher security. The distinction came when prisoners reached a certain level of magical ability, one them being Animagi transformations. Those who could transform were put into the high security wing, guarded both by Dementors and Death Eaters. The human contact must have kept them sane because Hermione often heard stories of questioning and subsequent torture when they gave up no information. Although what information the Death Eaters could possibly want was beyond her.

Another thing she could not grasp was why she was not with them. She was one of the first to achieve a full transformation. Draco knew this. More impressively, she was one of Harry Potter's closest friends. If anyone deserved to be in the high-security wing, it was her. Yet here she was, in low security with occasional visits from the Death Eater guards that lasted only long enough to give and take her food bowl. She did not mind the lack of attention (for the prospect of torture was not at all pleasant), but it puzzled her nonetheless.

She thought of Sirius often. Although she did not know the man well, he was the only one, dead or alive, who could possibly understand her position. She wondered how he was able to keep his sanity for so long. Even though he was innocent, this place sucked so much out of a person. She admired him for that and strived to live up to his singular achievement. In that way, he became her post-mortem inspiration. Whenever her hope began to fade, she thought of him and it returned. If someone else could do it, so could she.

Unlike Sirius, though, the thought that kept her sane was not her innocence. In her mind, she wasn't innocent at all. It was her fault that Voldemort had succeeded. The death of every person since his regime took over fell squarely onto her shoulders. And the guilt was suffocating. Sometimes, when the Dementors were particularly close, she felt smothered by her memories and fainted, hearing the high-pitched shrieks of those in pain as her world faded into blessed blackness.

Whenever this happened, she would have the most horrid dreams. She could see the dead, those faceless bodies just piling up in a mass grave before her. Some still twitched – maybe they were alive. But no matter what their state of existence was, they were slime: nothing but Muggles and Mudbloods, and they did not deserve to live. A Death Eater would point his wand at them, mutter a spell, and up they would go, consumed by flames. The smell was unlike anything she had ever experienced. The hiss and crackle of cooking flesh made her stomach churn so badly that she would wake up and vomit onto the floor.

No, there was no safe place for her. By all accounts, she should have been the first one driven mad.

Instead, hope kept her sane. Hope and suspicion. The thoughts always in the back of her mind were of Draco. After such a long time with only her thoughts for company, she often found herself reliving nearly every minute she spent with him, always looking for something that she may have missed, some clue that would provide some explanation of why he betrayed her so. But nothing ever came of it.

Since time disappeared inside of the heavily guarded walls, Hermione did not know how long it took for her to get acclimated to prison life. But oddly enough, she did. She grew accustomed to little or no food and learned to mostly ignore the icy grip of the Dementors' presence. She slept through the screams and moans of the other prisoners soundly.

Soon, it was not so much an issue of being imprisoned as it was finding something to do with all the free time. In the days of her old life, she would read or study or simply relax with her friends. But now that such activities were impossibilities, Hermione was lost. She had no visitors and there was no one else in the prison capable of intelligent vocalizations.

On good days, which occurred with surprising frequency, she would attempt wandless magic. She would stare at a plate or a spoon or a small piece fabric for hours, concentrating, stretching for that wonderful warming sensation inside her very bones that indicated that the magic she once possessed was still there. A few times, she thought she felt a shred of it. But as soon as she applied that feeling to make the desired object levitate or burst into flames, it left her as if on a stiff wind. At times, she felt like she was making progress. Most days, she was just fooling herself.

Other days, she recalled her textbooks, keeping fresh in her mind all the knowledge that she had gained. She knew the chances of her actually using any of the spells she had learned again were slim, but if there was a chance, even a small probability that she would ever lay hands on a wand again, she wanted to be prepared. If she ever got out, she would be ready.

_If_ she ever got out…


	2. Ch 2: Catching the Subtleties

**Catching the Subtleties**

Although time came to a screeching halt inside of the prison, it marched on steadily outside the thick stone walls. Hermione was able to glimpse slight weather changes courtesy of the small, barred window located high atop her cell. Of course, the changes were _very_ slight: the fact that Azkaban was located on a small speck of land in the middle of the frigid North Sea was not entirely helpful when it came to estimating time.

The sky never seemed to change, forever covered in thick, steel grey clouds. When she was feeling especially pensive, Hermione would lean against the bars of her cell and stare out of the window. Then, she would close her eyes and imagine a sky without the clouds. The sight was always fantastic. Due to Azkaban's extreme isolation, all the stars would be visible. Her mind's eye was able to follow the Milky Way across the galaxy. She passed the planets she had grown to know so well and named the stars, swirling along by herself to the cosmic dance, to the music that she alone could hear.

Yes, her imagination served her well.

There were no discernable signs of life outside the wall, either. Aside from her barn owl Amaris visiting her the very first night, she had not seen so much as a cockroach. Migratory birds never visited because the island was perfectly uninhabitable. To Hermione's knowledge, the piece of land upon which Azkaban sat was little more than a chunk of sharp rock. There were no trees or shrubs to support life. And even if there were, would life even choose to inhabit such a desolate place?

Hermione thought not.

So she could not rely on the sight of the stars or the sound of the birds to determine what season it was. Instead, she relied on her lesser senses to give her the information for which she so desperately yearned. It was by smell that she was able to keep a loose track of time.

In the spring, there was a light, clean smell to the salty wind constantly blowing into her cell. It was as if the wind knew it needed a new start and blew afresh from some untapped, pure source. It was an unsullied smell and in a way, it was cleansing. Although the spring reminded Hermione of the day she was condemned to die in this terrible place, the smell of the wind told her something different. It reminded her of beginnings. But what new beginning she could find in Azkaban was beyond her comprehension.

As summer rolled in, so did another scent. It was of a wind that had been around and was just beginning to fully enjoy the life it had. It was heady and strong, carrying the smell of salt so heavily upon it that it seemed to coat Hermione in brine. Fleshy and full, it was neither cool nor refreshing and Hermione was happy when fall arrived.

At least, she was for a little while. The cool and crisp wind of the fall was invigorating when the summer days were dying. But once autumn was in full swing, invigorating turned into bone-chilling. She would huddle in the least wind-touched corner of her cell in a feeble attempt to escape the mean, probing fingers of the breeze. It smelled, for lack of a better word, like death: like the flesh of the summer was falling off it in chunks. There was a subtle smell of rotting intermingled with the constant salt. It was strongly nauseating.

But if autumn was bad, winter was truly unbearable. The wind blew constantly and there ceased to be a corner of refuge. The Death Eaters gave her no blanket. Hermione was constantly exposed to the wind, whose fingers had turned to knives over the span of one week. The air smelled crisp and sterile, like it had finally lost its rotting flesh of autumn and was just a skeleton of its former self. Hermione was constantly shivering, her teeth chattering so hard she was afraid they would break.

A few nights, when the chill in her heart matched that in her bones, she felt close to death. But she never allowed herself to fall asleep on those nights because she knew there would only be a small possibility of her waking the next day. Some of the other prisoners on her ward were not so lucky. Every two or three days, a guard would patrol the hall and shoot the Cruciatus Curse at the prisoners to make sure they were living. If they screamed, they were alive. If not, he would notify two other guards whose job it would be to dispose of the corpse. Even at her weakest, Hermione always remembered to scream, or at least moan.

She was more than halfway through her second winter when something changed.

Hermione was huddled near the bars when she heard the guards approach for their weekly inspection of the prisoners. Instead of the stony silence she was used to hearing, the guards were talking – actually talking. It wasn't a hushed conversation, spoken only in incomprehensible whispers and jerky hand motions. Oh no, this was true conversation. And it was about her.

"What about this one?" came the voice of a rather paunchy Death Eater. "She screams every time."

The tall one looked skeptical. "_Crucio!_"

Hermione could not help but moan when the curse hit, but not intent on keeping the paunchy man's promise, Hermione gritted her teeth and choked back her scream. She curled into the fetal position, hands scrabbling for purchase across the smooth stone floor, as if trying to dig away from the hurt. Hermione's silence was obviously displeasing. The guard intensified the curse and a new wave of mind-numbing pain coursed through her veins. Unable to stay silent any longer, she screamed.

She could hear an evil smirk on the tall man's voice. "Scream's not enough. I want somefin' more…"

With a sadistic laugh, the chubby guard aimed his wand at her. He hissed the curse and for a moment, Hermione knew pain unlike anything she had felt before. She writhed pitifully as her mind disconnected from her body. It was like she was watching her torture through a screen situated above her. The whole scene, from the Dementors to the guards to her pathetic form, was in view. She looked on apathetically as her bloodied hands clawed desperately at her own skin. Although she knew it was hurting, she did not feel the pain. Not yet, anyway.

She could hear herself, though. And in a way, hearing the pain was worse than feeling it. Hermione didn't know she could make such pitiful noises. Her cries echoed throughout the prison, prompting the Dementors to crowd around her cell, further exacerbating the torture; it was no longer just physical.

Hermione saw her face contort and watched in silence as crystalline tears streaked down her grime-covered face exposing pale rivulets of skin. Through the cackling of the guards, the slow rattle of Dementor's breath, and the muted yells of the other inmates, Hermione heard something that chilled her: she was begging.

Her tortured, writhing form, still had enough sense to beg for its life. "Please…Please, stop." Her pleas were barely louder than gasps of air; it was evident that the guards did not hear. "Stop," she moaned into the floor. "It hurts…it hurts so much…please…" They may actually have heard her this time because her already convoluted body contorted even further on the floor. Finally, she could take it no longer. With a piercing scream, Hermione found herself trapped back in her body. Before the pain could take her over, she yelled: "STOP!"

To her amazement, it did.

"See?" said the paunchy guard. "Plenty of spunk in that one yet. What do you think?"

"Quite the pair of lungs in 'er too," the tall one chuckled meanly. "Yeah, we'll keep 'er in mind. Now let's get goin' – we still 'ave this and the 'igh security ward to finish up."

With a flick of his wand, the tall Death Eater dismissed the Dementors. They walked away carelessly, as if nothing out of the ordinary had just passed, and continued their inspection of the other prisoners.

Hermione, however, lay broken on the floor for a while after they were gone. She was wracked with violent fits of tremors. Her body was a complete mess. She steadily bled from the self-inflicted gash marks that covered her arms; the skin that used to reside on them was stuck beneath her broken and bloodied fingernails. Her entire being ached. Tears ran down her face as she remained in the same position in the same place until she fell asleep.

Her rest was not a peaceful one, though. Familiar nightmares from her past relentlessly plagued her unconscious mind. It was always the same nightmare. It started with Hermione pinioned to the ground, watching with wide eyes the murders of Ginny Weasley and Harry Potter. They fell to the ground and Voldemort appeared before her out of a heavy mist. He was laughing – a nasal, hissing sound that made her flesh crawl. He bared his pointed teeth in a sadistic smile and was about to cast the Killing Curse when he morphed into Draco.

He would help her up from the ground and, despite past experience, Hermione would always think that the dream was going to improve. It never did. In fact, it usually got worse. Tonight was no exception. He helped her up and walked with her to the Hogwarts' Quidditch Pitch. He started to speak into her ear and as he spoke, the stands started to fill. Corpses filed into the wooden structures as a normal audience would. They focused all of their attention onto her, their dead and hollow eyes giving away nothing.

Then, one by one, the full stands would move closer to her, providing her with a view of every gory detail. Draco narrated in her ear the whole time.

"This woman was a Muggle," he said as a woman with half her face missing popped out of the audience. "Her husband died as well, but her two small daughters were kept alive. Don't worry, though – I'm sure the Death Eaters will take good care of them…Ah, this man was a Muggle, too. And he was a fighter." The man, who was steadfastly looking down, held up his arms, which were not so much arms as they were bloody stumps. "After torturing him, they tortured his wife. Raped and killed her before his eyes. Well, when he had eyes…" The man looked up. His eyes were nothing more than holes in his head. Hermione wanted to scream, but the sound was caught in her throat.

Then came what she hated the most. "Ah, the blood-traitors…" The Weasley family had an entire section for themselves and all of them were present, each mangled in a unique and sadistic way. "They were _so_ disappointed in you, Hermione…Ah, and here comes the Order. Look at them…united again and, like the Weasleys, so very disappointed…Betraying them like you did? How could you?" Their dead eyes burned right through her. "Ah, and the savior himself: Harry Potter." Draco did not need to say more than this. Harry's were the only eyes which showed emotion: they were filled with loathing and they burned into her.

Just as Harry was about to speak, Hermione would wake up, doused in sweat and tears. This time was no exception aside from the addition of blood; her thrashing during sleep had reopened the wounds on her arms.

The guards were just starting to come around again. She could hear their heavy footsteps echoing off the cold stone floors. Except it was not just two pairs of feet: it was three. There were _three_ Death Eaters approaching her cell. And they were speaking.

"Bloody hell," one muttered, "this stink is fucking unbelievable."

"What did you expect, Crabbe?" the other replied snottily. "There's nothing but Mudbloods and blood traitors in here…Damn Malfoy for assigning us these posts."

" 'Spose it's because of seventh year, sir?"

Hermione, whose heart had momentarily ceased to beat, heard Blaise stop in his tracks. She could just imagine what he looked like: cold blue eyes shut, chest expanding with a deep, forcibly calming breath, betrayed by the clenched fists at his sides. "I suppose it would be, Goyle," he managed to hiss past clenched teeth. "Now if we can get a move on, I'd like to get out of this _pit_ as soon as possible."

Movement resumed once more and Hermione's pulse quickened with each step they took.

Please don't stop here, please don't stop here, she chanted silently.

They did.

She could feel their appraising eyes roam over her body. Zabini gave a barking laugh.

"_This_ one?"

"She was screamin' somefin' awful last time, sir," Goyle answered. "An' she was able to speak!"

A tense silence followed his statement. "You are sure?" Zabini's voice was smeared with incredulity.

"Yes, sir," replied Goyle. "Begged us to stop, she did." There was a grunt of agreement from Crabbe.

"Well, if she's sane, that changes things. Should fetch a much higher price than anticipated…" He thought for a moment. "If I find her any less than satisfactory, it's your heads on a platter. Is that understood?"

"Yes, sir," the guards chorused.

"Good. Unlock the cell and take her to Examination Room C."

It was all happening so quickly…_too_ quickly. The familiarity of their names had shocked her at first, but now, as Crabbe and Goyle gripped her beneath the arms and dragged her to her feet, Hermione almost fell into a faint. Crabbe, Goyle, Zabini…They were at school with her, they were in Slytherin…They were Draco's old posse. And more than that, they were real. These were tangible people, physical reminders of her past…of Hogwarts…of Draco.

The possibility of him working in the prison as well hit her like a ton of bricks. What if he was here? What if he was here the whole time and, instead of helping her escape, was content to let her rot in her cell?

Something in her heart flickered out at the thought. She faintly recognized it at hope. If Draco was working in Azkaban, then her struggle to remain sane would have been for naught.


	3. Ch 3: The Red Door

**Author's Note**: Hey all! Sorry about the wait; I hope this chapter is worth it! Thanks for your patience and support!!

**The Red Door**

Hermione barely noticed as two burly arms hefted her off the ground and dragged her to the examination room. Draco was the only thing occupying her thoughts. The unfriendly presence of his old posse exposed to her consciousness the possibility of him working in Azkaban. The thought alone nearly killed her.

She did not have time to dwell for long, though, as she was unceremoniously tossed into a small tiled room at the feet of a tall, dark man holding a clipboard and a wand.

"I have heard interesting things about you, girl," he said in a lightly accented voice. He walked around her slowly, quill scratching parchment as he took notes on her appearance, which Hermione knew was less-than-exemplary. He muttered to himself all the while. After a few minutes, he finished his preliminary observations. Now, the true examination could begin.

"Stand up," he ordered.

For a moment, Hermione considered refusing. But the thought was gone almost as quickly as it came as she thought of the consequences; they would be unforgiving at best. She tried to stand, the first time not managing to lift herself far off the floor. Closing her eyes, she summoned enough strength to stand, holding onto the table to keep erect.

Only then did Hermione realize how weak she actually was. She did not move a lot in her cell – her muscles must have atrophied. Remaining upright exhausted her. The torture she had experienced not two days prior did not help her fatigue. She just hoped it would be over soon and resolved to begin a strength-training regimen as soon as she was back.

"Hm, thoroughly emaciated," he noted in a bemused sort of tone. "I'm surprised you can stand."

_So am I_, Hermione thought.

"I heard you can speak." She was surprised but did not let it show on her face. Instead, Hermione looked at him blankly. The examiner drew back his hand as if to strike her. "Speak, slave!"

"Piss off," Hermione croaked, voice raw and unpracticed.

The examiner smiled cheekily and lowered his arm. "So you can…That's good news."

"For whom?"

He raised an eyebrow as he looked at her, mouthed quirked into a little, secretive grin. "Oh, you'll find out soon enough. Now get onto the scale." She stumbled across the room and he took down her weight and height. Then, he ordered her to sit on the examination table. She was not able to heft herself up to the proper height, so he conjured a stool for her. The man was being surprisingly civil, but Hermione knew it wouldn't last.

She was right. As soon as it came time for the physical part of her examination, he was just as cruel and savage as the other Death Eaters. He manhandled her body like it was nothing more than a sack of meat which, Hermione thought sardonically, was inaccurate: she was more bone than flesh at this point. After thoroughly violating her, he called for Crabbe and Goyle, who dragged her to her familiar cell once more.

They tossed her in apathetically; she doubted they even recognized her. She landed on the rough stone with a small 'oomph' and immediately crawled to her favorite corner. There, she curled up into herself, tears pouring down her face in humiliation. Ancient thoughts of Draco wormed their way through as well, adding heartache to the physical one that was starting to work its way through her. Like so many other nights, exhaustion took her and she fell into unconsciousness with tears in her eyes.

From all the excitement that she had experienced over the past week, Hermione was sure something was going on. But as the days passed, her certainty flickered. Death Eaters passed her cell no more than usual and said nothing to her. She listened for whispers of anything that would give her a clue as to what was going on, but the guards were mum.

It was not until spring arrived, marking the second year anniversary of Hermione's arrival at the hellish structure that was Azkaban, that anything happened.

The night was warm. A cool spring breeze somehow penetrated the thick walls of her prison. Hermione sat in the corner so she was able to feel its gentle caress. She sighed and looked at the clouds, imagining the stars and the life she could have had if everything was different.

So lost was she in her reverie that she did not notice three Death Eaters come up behind her until their heavy keys clinked together as they unlocked her cell. Any form of resistance by her came too late. Before she could even scurry to the other corner, two of the guards grabbed her arms, efficiently hoisting and carrying her between them to destination unknown.

Although she had only ventured outside her cell once, she had breathed Azkaban for so long that she knew its every nook and cranny. But she did not recognize this part of the fact, the hall she was being dragged down started to look less and less like a prison with each step her captors took. The walls were still the thick, grey stone, but they were now lit with ornate wall sconces which provided unsteady, romantic light. She could not hear water dripping anywhere; it was dry and clean, free from puddles of unknown substances that were bound to accumulate where people were held en masse. The air was warmer, too. This part of the Azkaban seemed nearly inhabitable. The small feeling of comfort she felt from this, though, was soon extinguished.

The Death Eaters veered from the main hall into an empty room. From underneath his robes, one of the guards tossed a bundle of cloth at her feet.

"Put those on," he demanded.

Hermione bent to pick up the clothes. _Put what on?_ They were as good as rags, or perhaps worse. Thin and ragged, they may have been white at one time, but were now spattered with all manner of grime and filth. She looked at the guard expectantly, waiting for him to turn around; Hermione may have been a prisoner, but she still had her pride...barely.

The guard seemed not to notice or, if he did notice, care. He issued the order once more, making it clear that he was not about to turn his back on her. With her dignity nearly as shredded as her clothes, she turned around and changed. The hole-riddled rags covered nothing. It did not take Hermione long to assume the worst.

The hall ended in a thick red door. Unlike the rest of the hallway, which continued to grow in splendor, its scarlet paint was weathered and chipped. There was a dull roar coming from the other side of it. An unsettling wave of trepidation washed over her; Hermione vaguely recognized it as destiny. The reason they had yanked her out of her cell one winter's night, the reason they had subjected her to a quick and dirty physical, the reason she was dressed as she was, standing in front of this door with this guard on this night, of all nights…It all meant something. Whatever was beyond this door would change her life.

From what she had experienced, change brought nothing but trouble. Why would she want it now?

The many deep and raucous voices blended into one noisy swell. She estimated that it would come to a crescendo as she crossed the threshold.

The red door swung open slowly and the scene before her made Hermione cringe. The room was large, crowded, and poorly lit. What little orange light managed to make its way over the crowd was hazy; the heady perfumes of fine cigars lingered in the air. She could barely breathe for the stuffiness. She was surprised the fifty-some men in the room were able to talk, let alone inhale. But there they were, seated at tables and conversing animatedly to each other. All were robed…all were Death Eaters. Their masks, each a different cast, were terrifying. She recognized a few of the patterns but could not dredge up faces to match the designs.

Their tables all faced a stage, upon which there was a podium. A man stood there silently, simply watching his peers interact. His eyes scanned the crowd lazily but, as his gaze fell on her, he suddenly became animated.

"Oh ho, men!" he yelled with a grand gesture. "We have yet another!"

Their attention was caught immediately. The men let out a rowdy cheer, some raising their glasses high into the air. Hermione was still being held in the wings.

"Her file!" yelled a deep voice from the crowd. "Read us her file!" His demand garnered much support from the crowd.

The provost smiled graciously. "Her file, please, Goyle," he said to the man holding Hermione's right arm.

"She 'asn't got one, sir," he answered dutifully, if not a bit hesitantly.

The man's expression faltered for a moment and a hush fell over the audience. It was only for a moment, though; the announcer recovered quickly.

"No file?" he said in mock-surprise, a smile lacing his voice. "You know what that means, men…" They hooted and hollered as he continued. "_Fresh meat_." He hesitated dramatically. "Do you want to see her?" They crowd cat-called and howled obscenely. "I said, do you want to see her?" The men yelled louder, alcohol spurring their gaiety. "Well then, here she is!"

The guards shoved Hermione out of the wing into center stage. She stood there uncertainly for a moment, one hundred eyes perfectly trained on her emaciated, pale, and shaking form. Pride forbade her from showing weakness, so Hermione held her head up high. She glared back defiantly at any man who tried to meet her gaze, making them chuckle and nudge their neighbors conspiratorially.

"Kinda scrawny, ain't she, men?" The provost circled her like a vulture circles a corpse, his long fingers pecking at her limbs. She yanked her arm back to her side and glared at him. "Oooh, and what a temper! She's a spitfire!" The audience laughed and hollered. Needing no more encouragement, the host wrapped his arms around her from behind and pulled her close. His face was against hers as he started to grind his hips into her backside. Sickened by the gesture, Hermione struggled against his hold. She stomped hard on his foot, causing him to let go and curse profusely. Out of nowhere came his fist, colliding solidly with the side of her face. She went down immediately amid whoops and hollers of delight.

"Take your chances with this one, mates," the host warned, exaggeratedly limping back to his podium. "What shall we start the bidding at? Say, twenty Galleons?"

Hermione brought her hand to her face: her cheek stung and her mouth had started to bleed. Disgusted, she spat a glob on blood and saliva at the provost's feet and tried to block out the men's bidding with limited success.

"Thirty Galleons from the man in back, thank you!" Tentatively, Hermione looked up from the floor. "Do I have thirty-five? Thity-five, yes! Thank you sir!" There were so many of them…and they all looked the same. "Forty, good. Forty-five. Forty-five to fifty, fifty sir, yes." Was Draco out there somewhere? "Fifty-five! My, my…she is indeed a hot item!" Tempted to glare at the auctioneer, she steadfastly scanned the audience. "Sixty! Sixty Galleons!"

A table caught her eye. One man was whispering to another, who was of thick build. Occasionally, he would surreptitiously glance at her. The burlier man nodded curtly, stood, and said aloud, "One hundred Galleons!"

The room fell into a tense hush. Although her price had risen dramatically, she was doubtful anyone was willing to go higher than one hundred Galleons for her. Her bidder, apparently, knew this without a doubt. With the smack of gavel on wood, she was officially sold to the well-muscled man sitting at table thirteen.

She was dragged across the stage and out of sight. She and the guards waited in the wings for a minute when her new owner arrived.

"I'll take it from here," he said. His voice was deep and a little scratchy, as if he had been yelling at people all his life.

"Yes, sir," said one of her guards, and dropped her arms. Unprepared for the sudden lack of support, Hermione fell to the floor at the man's feet. She silently cursed herself and struggled to get up. The man made no move to aid her.

"My name is not important," he started once he was standing, "but yours is. I assume you can speak?" She nodded. "Your name, then?"

"Jean," Hermione quickly lied.

He slapped her across the face violently. She fell to the floor again. "Jean, _sir_," he corrected in a nonchalant tone. Hermione struggled to her feet once more. "You shall address me as sir or, preferably, Master, as that is what I am." He cupped her face in his hand, which was, as expected, quite large and strong. "I am your master," he said pointedly. "You answer to me and only to me. You will do exactly what I say, exactly when I say it. You will not hesitate. You will not disobey. Am I understood?"

"Yes," she said.

He thrust her to the floor, skull bouncing off the hard wood floorboards. It was a moment before she could open her eyes. As she did, she felt the pressure of one large boot to her sternum. She looked into his masked face in fear. "What was that?" he asked expectantly.

"Yes, sir," she replied faintly. Tears welled in her eyes as the boot was removed.

"Good girl," he said condescendingly. "Now, get up."

Hermione was barely able to make it to her feet. Despite her strength training, she was emaciated and weak. Her head spun and she was bleeding again. Eyes trained on the ground and mind entirely focused on planting one foot before the other, she slowly followed her Master out of Azkaban and into her future.


	4. Ch 4: A Change of Atmosphere

**Author's Note: **Not too much to say on my part. Now that finals are over, hopefully I can update a little more frequently for the next two months. Can't make any promises, however. :) Enjoy!

**A Change of Atmosphere**

The minute Hermione set foot outside Azkaban Fortress, a giant weight was hefted from her shoulders, enabling her to breathe properly for the first time in two years. The salty smell of the ocean stung her nostrils, but she inhaled deeply nonetheless. The impulse to spread her arms wide and take in the night was strong; she almost gave into it.

Unfortunately, the desire to avoid further injury was stronger. The Master barked her name loudly and stood impatiently at the designated Apparation area. She came to him obediently and whimpered as he pulled her to his chest.

"Hold on," he growled. Hermione clutched his robes and winced as he turned in place. The familiar squeezing sensation of Apparation was never a welcome one, and this time was no exception.

It lasted only for a moment, though. With a small pop, they landed at the door of a large, black stretch limousine. The paint shone despite the lack of light. With a flick of the Master's wand, the door opened. "In."

She did not hesitate. This limousine was the nicest car she had ever seen, let alone been in, and the grey leather seats looked outrageously comfortable. She smiled as she slid across them to make room for the Master; they were as nice as they looked, and from the feel of it, heated. The Master took the seat across from her, filling up the entire space with his size. Hermione tried not to stare.

The ride was long, but the limousine seemed to glide over the roads. The warmth of the interior, the plush seats, and the repetitive sound of the Master's breathing and the wheels upon the pavement were a tonic to Hermione's frayed nerves. Though she willed her eyes to remain open, her body needed rest. Battle lost, Hermione's eyes drooped shut and her head fell back upon the seat. As if through cotton, she heard the Master chuckle – the first indication that he was actually human.

Though she was supremely comfortable as she was, the Master's warm hands touched her neck and torso, carefully laying her down across the seat. Half-conscious, she thanked him, making sure to address him as, "Sir." She slept soundly for the rest of the journey.

"Jean." Hermione jerked upright, eyes searching the unfamiliar surroundings. She pressed herself against the seat, heart racing with panic, until she saw the Master. Everything came flooding back to her then. She was sure that the auction and the limousine had been a dream, but he was certainly real. "We're here."

He let himself out first; Hermione followed, as expected. Limbs stiff and clumsy, she stumbled out of the car, nearly falling to the gravel walkway. She regained her balance quickly, however, and gaped at her new address.

The mansion instantly dwarfed her. It was at least four stories high and sprawled across the ample grounds. The windows were caged with thick bars, reminding her unpleasantly of the cell she had recently vacated. The pointed roof was set before a backdrop of star-scattered sky. Gothic spires pierced the blackness and gargoyles spread their wings against the night. Despite the sinister façade, Hermione's heart flew. It had been far too long since she had seen anything so beautiful. And even though she was sure that the daylight would still prove the mansion to be black and forbidding, she could not stop marveling at its elegance. She struggled to repress a shiver as a chill wind blew.

A light appeared before her: the Master's wand. "Come," he said. She did without complaint; she was too busy looking at the fantastic architecture to put up much of a fight. Once she was over the grandeur of the place, she tried to make out the grounds. The light was barely enough for her to see in front of her, but luckily, Hermione's eyes were well-accustomed to darkness.

They walked down a long pathway that eventually ended in a pair of large, wood and iron doors. Trees lined either side of the path at set intervals. They were not yet in bloom, but they were budding. Randomly, Hermione was excited to see their flowers. Beyond the trees was a huge, open field of well manicured grass. She was not sure how far she could run, but maybe if she slowed her pace…

"Don't bother thinking of escape," said the Master in a bored voice. "There is no one else for quite a ways – you'd die before you could reach anyone. And besides, I have a wand." He said the last with a smile on his voice and, although he was wearing a mask, she could imagine his half-amused glance as he looked at her over his shoulder. Hermione kept her face impassive, but could not restrain a dignified 'hmph' of frustration. To her surprise, the Master kept talking.

"I'm assuming you heard little of what has become of the world since your interment in Azkaban. Would I be correct?"

"Yes, sir," Hermione acknowledged. She knew nothing of how the world now was. Honestly, she was not sure she wanted to know, but she had a sinking feeling that she was about to find out, whether she liked it or not.

"Well, there's quite a bit to tell. The Dark Lord established his rule quickly. After the fall of Potter, the Ministry crumbled. Those who stood up to Him, either before Potter's defeat of after, were slaughtered. The entire Order of the Phoenix was killed, their bodies heaped in an unmarked grave. I still remember the _stench_…a not-so-subtle reminder about what happens to those who resist Him."

Hermione's stomach dropped. She felt like she could remember the stench too, her dreams sometimes a little too close to reality. Troubled, she cleared her throat. "There are no survivors from the Order, sir?" Hermione questioned in a small voice. She tried not to sound overly interested, but she felt that the question was justified: she _was_ a prisoner in Azkaban, after all. Obviously, she had sided with Harry at some point. What she did not want him realizing, though, was the depth of her connection to him – the reason for giving the Master her middle name instead of her first. A lowly prisoner named Jean attracted far less attention than a survived Order member named Hermione.

Her quick-thinking held her in good stead. "There are a few," the Master started hesitantly, "that we have not apprehended yet. The Dark Lord has made his displeasure about this fact obvious. If one is seen, they are to be captured or, if they run, killed."

Hermione stifled a gasp. There were others! And surely she was one of the missing! Keeping a low profile was probably the most important thing she could do. Obscuring her face with her tangled hair, she waited for the Master to continue.

"Of course, blood is of utmost importance. Purebloods who have joined Him are the highest in our society. Below them are the blood-traitors – those with untainted blood but who fought against the Dark Lord's rule. Sometimes they get out of hand. The lesser defectors are imprisoned. The full-scale rioters are killed outright." Hermione thought of Neville as he spoke. The last picture of him in her head…His neck turned at an awkward angle, blood still slowly trickling down his face, that soulless, dead eye…She suppressed her tears. "Muggles and Mudbloods are the lowest of the low, of course," the Master continued. "Good only as slaves and playthings, below even the House Elves."

"So is that what I am to be, sir?" questioned Hermione with an edge on her voice. "A _plaything_?"

She knew her tone was straddling the thin line between acceptable and punishment, but luck, for once, was on her side. The Master seemed more embarrassed than angry and cleared his throat. "Something of that sort," he mumbled, his tone putting Hermione on guard.

"But why now, sir?" Hermione asked before she could stop herself. "I've been imprisoned for two years, at least. Why now has Voldemort decided to let me go?"

His hand flew from the air and struck her down. "_Do not speak His name!_" the Master hissed. Tears welled in her eyes more from surprise than pain, but she did not let him see. She raised her hand to cup her cheek and picked herself up from the rough ground; this whole punishment thing was becoming quite tedious.

"To answer your question," he growled, "the Dark Lord decided that Azkaban was becoming overcrowded. Those of good form were to be auctioned off. Those who were no longer sane, killed." His cold tone chilled Hermione. She hardly noticed that they had arrived at the large wood doors until the Master waved his wand and they opened silently.

The entrance hall was ornately decorated and made an intimidating first impression. Gigantic tapestries of great battles, of beasts and celestial beings, and of blood lines adorned the stone walls. All around were busts of what Hermione assumed were the Master's relations. She shuddered as she recognized one of Voldemort, which was centrally located and impossible to miss. There was no mistaking with whom the Master's loyalty laid. The floors were made of some hard red stone flecked with gold – granite or marble. The Master's footsteps echoed off the floors and suddenly, with a loud pop, a house elf appeared at his side.

"Can Ziry take the Master's cloak?" it asked in a high pitched squeak, holding out its thin arms for the heavy material. She was dressed in what looked to be an old pillowcase and had huge, bulging brown eyes.

"Have they arrived yet, Ziry?" he asked.

"Yes, sir," she replied, "they has. Ziry showed them into the drawing room, as the Master instructed."

"Good," he said. "I have one more piece of business to attend to, then I shall meet them. Make sure they are comfortable."

"Yes, sir. Ziry will, sir." She disappeared with another pop, leaving Hermione to wonder how many more like her lived in the house. Ziry did not seem so frightened of the Master, and one could tell a lot about a person by how they treated their inferiors. Oddly, this gave her hope.

She walked further through the entrance hall and into what resembled somewhat of a crossroads. Here met four or five passages, each leading a different direction. A grand staircase swooped down in the middle of it all, gilded and with a thick red carpet over the white marble stairs.

"Upstairs are the bedrooms," he explained quickly. "Starting from the right, the halls lead to the kitchens, the grounds, the library and drawing room, the music room and greenhouse, and the servant's quarters and the dungeons. That is where we are going."

Hermione hesitated for a moment before following him. The dungeons? But she had just gotten out of prison. Was she so soon going to be thrown into another one?

The mansion's splendor diminished with the increase of her worry. Had her mind been unburdened, she would have found the walk to the dungeons quite beautiful. The walls were decorated with talking portraits and slow-moving tapestries. Doors dotted artistic landscape, breaking it up but doing nothing to diminish the grandeur. In fact, if anything, they served to enhance it. The doors were a rich, dark wood, hand carved and accented with gold leaf, each a different design.

At last, they had reached the end of the hallway. The door here was not so beautiful. In fact, it was repulsive. It was large and ribbed with thick iron pieces. The carvings on it were crudely fashioned. Hermione could not distinguish a pattern in the deep gash marks, which, she thought, may have been for the better.

With a wave of the Master's wand, the door swung open to reveal a short and uneven staircase. Hermione stumbled down it the best she could and shivered at the dramatic drop in temperature. She could barely see, but she could hear chains rattle and the slow drip of water from somewhere above. It smelled like mold. Hermione hoped that her cell, at least, would be dry.

The Master gripped her arm and led her down a passage to her right, at the end of which was a soft, glowing light. She passed cell by cell, each one of them small and mercifully empty. When they reached the end of the hall, the Master waved his wand again.

"Your quarters." He locked her in and said goodbye, but Hermione hardly noticed.

First and foremost, her room was a prison cell. The wall behind her was made of thick metal bars and the other three walls were the same dark stone as the rest of the mansion. The floor was also stone, but it was covered in rugs, which both decorated and insulated the room. A wooden table, chair, and a bookshelf adorned the far wall. The bookshelf, to Hermione's disappointment, was empty. She wondered absently why they had placed one down here at all. A modest bureau stood across from the bed.

The bed was on the right side of the room. It was at least a queen size mattress with a black blanket and two pillows. As she ran her hand over the blanket, she was surprised to find that it was quite soft. She sat down on the bed and found it to be the same. She chanced a smile and laid down. After sleeping for so long on a stone floor covered in hay, this mattress made it feel like she was sleeping on a cloud. She almost fell asleep right then, but something else caught her eye.

It was a door in the far corner of the room. It was the same dark wood as the rest of the house, but had no carvings. Hermione thought it was a shame, for it could be quite a handsome door with just a bit of work. She ran her hand over the smooth wood and gripped the doorknob. Slowly, she pushed it open. What she found nearly made her scream with delight.

It was a bathroom. An entire bathroom. And just for her. In it were all the amenities she had so often taken for granted not but two years back: a working toilet, a sink, a shower, and a mirror. Of course, nothing was perfect. The toilet was old and looked filthy. The mirror was cracked in a few places and it looked slightly warped. Hermione did not yet have the strength to look into it, though, and averted her eyes as she inspected the sink. It dripped water almost constantly and, as she turned on the tap, she was not sure the hot water tap worked.

The shower, however, did have hot water. She let it run, filling up the bathroom with steam. Hermione stripped out of the clothes, which were now dampened rags more than anything else, and stepped into the cascade. She nearly yelped with pleasure. The water was so hot it was almost unbearable; she shook involuntarily, partially from excitement, partially from shock. But mostly from shock. Despite herself, she started to cry. Sob, actually, was more like it. Unable to stand any longer, she sat on the floor of the shower and wept at her good fortune.

In a matter of a day, Hermione's entire life had changed. Earlier, she was in Azkaban – cold, hurt, and nearly hopeless. And now: imprisoned in a strange man's house with a bureau, a bed, and a working shower. She could hardly believe her luck. She cried for a little longer and, when it seemed she had ran out of tears, stood and began to wash.

It had been _far_ too long since her last shower. Two years of Azkaban grime ran off her body. Dirt, blood, and even her own waste tainted the draining water. She was momentarily amazed that the Master had been able to stand to be in her presence, let alone touch her; she did not want to contemplate how she must have smelled. Groping around the sides of the shower, she found a rough bar of soap. Tears spilled from her eyes again as she marveled at how something so ordinary could become such a luxury. She washed herself as best she could, using her short nails to scrape off any stubborn bits of filth. As soon as she had finished, she worked up a lather and went at her hair. Her long and matted locks seemed to repel the soap, but she persisted. After working the lather into every inch of her hair, she tried desperately to undo the knots which had formed. Diligently, she untangled and was eventually rewarded. It was difficult, but Hermione was finally able to run her fingers through her hair.

After washing one more time, Hermione decided that she desperately needed sleep. She turned off the tap, opened the door, and was surprised to see a black towel sitting on the bathroom counter. Had it just appeared or had it been there all along? Either way, Hermione was grateful. She dried off quickly and looked disdainfully at the rags on the floor. She just got clean and now she had to put those rags on again?

Hermione scoffed, wrapped herself in a towel, and gingerly stepped into her room. She had gotten lucky with the towel…Maybe lightening could strike twice. She stepped over to the bureau and, with a deep breath, pulled it open. And there, to her delight, were piles of clean clothes. The sight nearly made her break down once more. She pulled on a pair of underwear and the most comfortable pants and top she could find, officially declaring them pajamas.

With a smile, she crawled into the double bed and snuggled beneath the sheets. Warm, clean, and comfortable, Hermione temporarily forgot every bad event that had ever happened to her and, for the first time in two years, she was able to sleep without accompaniment.


	5. Ch 5: Visitors

**Author's Note**: Hey all! Sorry for the long time between updates; I admire your collective patience! Please enjoy!

**Visitors**

Still unequipped with a way to tell time, Hermione had no idea how long she slept or what time it was when she woke. All she knew was that she felt fantastic. She opened her eyes sleepily and found that she was facing the desk. Two years in Azkaban had broken her of her phobia of sleeping in plain view of others. Now, in a strange place with strange people, the slight unease returned to her. It did not help that, at the very moment Hermione rolled over, a mangy-looking servant appeared at the bars of her cell.

Hermione screamed. Her body jerked into the air involuntarily, vaulting her off the bed and onto the floor. After catching her breath, she peeked around the edge of the bed. The servant was unfazed. She was a thin girl, nearly skeletal, dressed in a plain blue house frock. Her pale yellow hair was tied back with a bandana and her sunken eyes looked at Hermione inquisitively. Shocked, Hermione eased herself up and cautiously walked towards the cell bars.

"Hello," Hermione said quietly. She was not entirely accustomed to talking yet, especially to people she did not know. She learned the hard way the punishment for speaking without being spoken to and, though she was behind iron bars and the girl looked harmless, Hermione was not going to take any chances. She hung back a bit, waiting for the girl to respond.

Instead of speaking, she pointed to the used towel on the floor. Hermione looked at it dumbly and back at the blonde-haired servant. The girl shook a finger at the towel and, finally, Hermione caught on. She picked up the towel and edged closer to the bars, holding it out for the girl to take. The girl snatched it from Hermione's hand and seemed to fly away from the bars. Hermione jumped back as well. They seemed equally afraid of each other, which put settled Hermione's unease.

"What's your name?" she asked.

No response. Just a nervous twitch in the girl's shoulder.

"What do you do here?"

More of the same.

"Can you speak?"

The pale girl's eyes widened. She turned and quickly walked away from Hermione's cell.

Not bothering to call out after her, Hermione instead rested her head against the cold bars to watch her leave. She sighed. Although she was tempted to return to her bed, she instead went to the bathroom to take another glorious shower.

After getting clean, Hermione had the opportunity to thoroughly inspect the bureau's contents; they had given her quite an odd assortment. Mostly, they were Muggle garments: sweat pants, solid-colored t-shirts, a few pairs of denim trousers, sweaters, and even a modest cotton dress. Her undergarments, though, were most puzzling. Packed carefully into the top two drawers were bra and panty sets of every fabric, color, and cut. She found short, silky pieces of lingerie and two or three corset and garter sets at the bottom of the drawer.

She selected the most modest pieces she could find, put on a pair of denim trousers and a t-shirt, and took a seat on the bed. More quickly than she would have liked, pieces snapped into place. As soon as a rational thought formed, however, Hermione shook it from her head. It was a coincidence; it had to be. Of all the things to think, her future at this mansion…with the Master…No, she could not think like that_._

She laid down, attempting to clear her head. Time passed with agonizing slowness. In Azkaban, at least, she had a window. And even if though it was perpetually cloudy, she could still _imagine_ what time of day it was. Now, she didn't have an inkling. Her circadian rhythms were probably hopelessly maladjusted after so much time in prison. For all she knew, she was nocturnal. The thought struck her as funny – she just had to chuckle.

Dozing in and out of sleep, she fingered the pouch around her neck. She dreamt of her old life at Hogwarts: the days spent in class – the lessons which always ended too quickly, the magic she learned, her professors – and the weekends with her friends – at Hogsmeade drinking Butterbeer, walking with Harry and Ron, visiting Hagrid, being with Draco…

_CRACK!_

She started and sat straight up on the bed, back against the wall. Standing at the foot of her bed was the house elf from last night – Ziry. Hermione tried to steady her breathing, or at least form a logical thought, but found that she could not.

Ziry seemed not to notice the lack of salutation. She flitted around Hermione's room, straightening the carpets, giving the table, chair, and bookshelf a quick dusting, replacing the clothes Hermione had slept in, and cleaning the bathroom. Having completed her circuit, she Disapparated at the foot of Hermione's bed.

Hermione cursed, deeply disappointed that she had not been able to talk to the little creature. But her disappointment only lasted a moment; a minute later, Ziry cracked in with a tray of food. She placed it on the table and disappeared again as Hermione shouted, "Wait!"

Either Ziry had not heard or Hermione had been ignored. At any rate, she had a feeling that the elf would not be coming back for a while. With a deep sigh, she moved to the table. Her normal fare was some sort of half-edible concoction of questionable meat and rotten vegetables with a moldy piece of bread on the side. She half-expected the same here, and was delighted when she saw that it was not so. A steaming bowl of broth and a piece of wheat bread sat upon her tray. There was even a tall glass of cool, crisp, and clean water for her to enjoy. Hermione simply stared at the meal, breathing it in. It was the first real meal she had in two years. She had to _experience_ it.

She ate slowly, relishing every bite. The soup was delicious: the broth was delicately spiced and the small pieces of vegetable – carrots, onions, and celery – were delicious. The bread was soft and still warm. She felt energy flooding back into her with each spoonful.

Unfortunately, the good feeling of decently prepared food was not to last. After surviving for so long on next to nothing, Hermione's body was completely unprepared for the nourishment. She should have known such a thing would happen, but the food so intoxicated her that she forgot herself. When the first cramp hit, she doubled over onto the floor. She fought hard against the urge to vomit, keeping her teeth tightly clenched shut. Instead, she moaned and curled into a ball behind her bed. For the next two hours, she was gripped with crippling stomach cramps, some bouts of it so fierce that she cried out softly in pain.

When the cramps subsided to dull but steady ache, Hermione crawled back up into her bed. She started to sleep again when she heard a familiar crack. She bolted upright immediately and said, "Ziry, wait!"

The elf, who was grabbing for the empty food tray, stopped mid-reach.

"Ziry, that is your name, isn't it?" She turned to Hermione and nodded slowly, her brown eyes wide in shock. "Are you allowed to speak to me?"

The elf nodded again.

Hermione's spirit lifted. "Please, can you just tell me what I'm doing here?"

She shook her head unhelpfully.

"Please, Ziry," Hermione pleaded. "I need to know what I'm doing here. What's going to happen to me?"

"Misses will find out later," Ziry said. "For now, Misses should rest."

"Why? Why should I rest?" Ziry shook her head and disappeared with a crack. "Wait, Ziry! Wait!" Hermione shouted fruitlessly. The little creature was gone and Hermione had no better idea of what was going on than when she arrived. The only thing Ziry had given her that was of any help was her advice to get some rest. It did not make any sense, but it must have been given for a reason.

So Hermione decided to listen. Not bothering to cover up, she curled up on her bed and took a nap, dreaming once more of Hogwarts and her past.

A similar routine continued for two weeks. Ziry brought her three meals a day and would not leave until the tray was clear. The food was basic at first – little more than broth and bread. But as the cramps subsided and Hermione's body became re-accustomed to taking nourishment, she was given cereal and fruit, juice, hearty stews, sandwiches and, most recently, half of a chicken breast. Aside from Ziry, Hermione saw the blonde girl once a day and always remembered to say hello.

One not-so-special evening, Hermione woke up abruptly from the middle of a deep sleep. Something felt wrong. The lights in the hall were dimmed and the air was still and tense. Warily, she got up from her bed and went to the bathroom, ears keen for anything out of the ordinary. She heard nothing.

She splashed cool water on her face, assuring herself that all was well. But with one foot out of the bathroom door, Hermione froze. Something was _very_ wrong. The room was pitch black: she could not see a thing. Her body coursed with tense energy. A large hand suddenly gripped her arm.

She let out half of a shriek before a second large hand clapped itself over her mouth. It was all she could do to keep from falling onto the floor in a dead faint. "Jean, it's me. Be quiet," the Master instructed, his voice low and soothing, "and be still." After waiting a moment for Hermione to collect herself, he removed his hand.

"Master…" Hermione breathed, "you frightened me, sir."

"I apologize."

"Why are you here, sir?"

"Because you are here," he said simply. He hesitated a moment before asking, "Do you understand your role in this household?"

"No, sir," Hermione lied. She had an idea, yes, but she could not admit it to herself.

He sighed. "I dare say you'll figure it out soon." He stroked her arm with one of his fingers, his grip on her unbreakable. Hermione's heart fluttered against her ribcage; she did not like where this was headed.

"Sir?" she questioned in a shaky voice.

He ignored her, running his other hand down her arm, stepping closer to her. With every step he took forward, she took one away until she found herself against a wall, the Master nearly flush against her body.

His head dipped into the crook of her neck. Hot breath spilled over her shoulder and collarbone, then moved up her neck into her ear. Hermione was frozen in place, heart pounding, breath racing. "Jean…" the Master whispered. Two hands cupped her face. She whimpered, but only half of the sound escaped as his lips found her own. They were forceful but gentle, insistent but not probing.

Then his tongue darted across her lower lip.

The reality of her situation hit Hermione like a brick to the stomach. Her limbs began to move of their own accord, trying in vain to push his large head away, shoving futilely against his broad chest. He curled his fists into her hair as her small hands beat against him. Though she doubted he felt it, the Master stopped.

"You've figured it out," he said against her lips, more of a statement than a question.

Hermione finally found her voice, which was much shakier than she intended. "Stop, please. Stop or I'll scream."

The Master chuckled, a harmless noise which nevertheless sent a deep, resonating shiver crawl through her body. "Do you wonder how it is so dark in here, Jean?" he asked, breath now washing over the other side of her neck. He did not wait for her answer. "It's the curtain. Not only does it guarantee our complete privacy, but it's also soundproof. So, while you _could_ scream, it wouldn't help you."

Tears streamed down her face. "Please," she whispered, "please don't do this. Don't do this to me."

"Go to the bed, Jean." His tone left no room for argument, but Hermione saw opportunity for interpretation. With a deep, shuddering breath, she nodded. The Master took a step back, giving her an inch. Hermione took the mile. She dashed past him, leaping across her bed, desperate to reach the iron bars. She had to raise the curtain. If she could see him, or if she could make him really see her, maybe he wouldn't…

Her hands reached the fabric, scrabbling for purchase as she heard his soft footsteps approach her from behind. Handfuls of seamless velvet cloth and, suddenly, his hands upon her arms, bringing them to her side with minimal effort.

"The curtain can only be raised by the one who lowered it. You're mine, Jean." She shuddered again. "Now, to the bed."

Hermione let loose a fierce scream and sent her elbow backward into his solid abdomen. She kicked, she clawed, she bit and she shrieked, desperate to save her dignity. The Master seemed completely unaffected. He took the abuse, not laying a finger on her in return. He backed her slowly into the bed, laying her down and pinning her easily. The sheer power he had over her – both by size and strength – was enormous. She was obviously outmatched and quickly running out of ideas.

"Please, don't do this to me." Her voice was choked with a sob as she felt him lift his robe. "Please, please, sir…Don't…"

"_Silencio_."

At that moment, something inside of Hermione died. She was physically overpowered and emotionally destroyed, not even permitted to beg for her dignity. Tears streamed through her closed eyes as the Master took her. After what felt like hours, she felt his release. With a kiss to her forehead and a whispered, "I'm sorry," he lifted the spell. All Hermione saw as he lifted the curtain was his hulking silhouette, that silhouette which had taken everything from her. Silently, she wept.


	6. Ch 6: Natural Selection

**Author's Note**: Just in time for Valentine's day! Anyway, enjoy! :)

**Natural Selection**

Hermione remained in a half-conscious daze until Ziry brought her morning meal; the loud, successive cracks jolted her back to cruel reality. She sat up and groaned. Every part of her ached. She could barely swing her legs over the edge of the bed, and fell to her knees on her first attempt to stand. Thoroughly discouraged, Hermione contemplated simply remaining on the floor.

But the pull of food was strong. She managed to crawl over to the desk and hoist herself into the chair. After one spoonful of oatmeal, however, Hermione knew it would not stay down. She dashed to the bathroom, emptying her stomach's meager contents into the toilet. She felt disgusting. She _was_ disgusting.

Not bothering to remove her remaining clothes, Hermione hobbled into the shower, turned the water fully to hot and sat down under its scalding deluge. She did not move, even when the intense temperature stung and reddened her skin. She needed to feel clean. Over an hour of soaking did nothing; Hermione simply felt numb.

Staring at the shower wall, she did not notice when Ziry entered the bathroom. Neither did she notice the tap being turned off nor did she register being hoisted up off the floor by two Muggle servants, one of which was the thin blonde.

They dried her off efficiently and changed her into clean clothes. A brush was gently pulled through her hair and Hermione was laid upon the bed. The elf dismissed the two Muggles and, once she was sure they were out of range, looked into Hermione's weathered brown eyes.

"The Master is not a bad man, Misses," Ziry said consolingly. "Him is just bound by the same rules as you."

Hermione involuntarily shuddered. The elf put a small, comforting hand on her shoulder and Disapparated, leaving Hermione alone in the dark.

Two days passed. Hermione was attended to studiously by Ziry, who often took a few extra minutes after each visit to sit with her. She was often silent, but Hermione appreciated the company regardless.

"I want to thank you, Ziry, for taking care of me," Hermione said on the third day. "It was very kind of you. I never thought…" She took a deep breath. "You were wonderful."

Ziry blushed to the tips of her long ears. "Misses is too kind," she said softly.

"And I don't know when you ever see them, but if you could pass on my gratitude to the other two women who helped you…"

Ziry nodded. "I will pass on the Misses' thanks, if she so desires."

Hermione made an affirmative noise in the back of her throat. Ziry disappeared with a nod and a kind smile. Hermione sighed, lips turning up into a small smile, and settled down to eat her cereal and strawberries.

She lay thinking for most of the day. Ziry had said that the Master was bound by rules – the same rules Hermione herself was bound by. But what rules were those? She found it hard to believe that Voldemort would write something so disgusting into his twisted constitution, although this new world seemed so backward that perhaps he had. But assuming he did not, who dictated what was to be done in one's own home? Wasn't it the Master? Or was he just _her_ Master and not his own?

She furrowed her brow. It was a lot to think about and she didn't have nearly enough information. If she could just get a better handle on what this world was like…

Eyes heavy, she was almost asleep when she heard the sound of approaching footsteps. Heavy boots echoed off the stone floors – Hermione did not have to guess at who it was. All vestiges of sleep dissipated. She leapt off the bed and stole into the bathroom, bracing herself against the door. Silent as the grave, she heard the cell door creak open and the heavy curtain fall into place with a swish. The Master called out to her.

"Jean," His voice was lilting and threatening. He was getting closer. Hermione swallowed and strengthened her stance against the door. She couldn't let this happen. Not again. Not to her. Her eyes roamed the bathroom as she desperately looked for a weapon. The shower, the toilet, the sink, _the mirror_. The one thing she kept avoiding…the one thing that could protect her.

Plan firmly in place, she remained motionless against the door, waiting for the opportune moment. She would have to break the glass with her hand, and she would have to do it on her first try. The Master would surely hear the shatter and then her pathetic refuge would be all but useless. She had one chance and one chance only.

As if on cue, the Master scraped a chair across the floor: he was at the desk. Hermione leapt from the door and brought her hand against the mirror with all the strength she possessed. Expecting a loud shatter, all she heard was the crunch of her hand against the hard surface. Reflexively, she cried out in pain, tucking the appendage to her breast.

Her body shook with pain and the will to stay silent, but the damage was done. The Master yanked open the bathroom door and hesitated for a moment. His mind was sharp, though, and quickly worked out what had happened. He let out a bark-like laugh, but his voice was surprisingly mild. "I admire your spunk, Jean, but there's nothing in this room that could hurt me. I'm sorry, my darling, but this is it."

Hermione froze as the Master advanced upon her back. She didn't have a weapon and her hand was definitely broken, but she still had the element of surprise. When she sensed he was close enough, Hermione turned around and brought her knee up into his groin. Her thrust landed and the Master doubled over, cursing.

Before he could regain himself, Hermione swiftly tried to pass him. As good an attempt as it was, it was futile. The Master's hand shot out and grabbed her injured wrist, yanking it down. Unprepared for the sudden force, Hermione toppled to the floor with a scream. Her skull bounced off the tiles, rendering her unconscious for a moment. This momentary lapse gave the Master more than enough time to recover, however, for when she came to, she was already in the bed.

She struggled; he pinned her. She begged; he silenced her. He took her; she could do nothing. Hermione did not move, did not think, did not breathe. She traveled far away, separate from her body, separate from him. After another eternity, he shuddered. Her consciousness flooded her once more and tears streamed down her face.

He did not leave immediately, however. Slowly, he sat her up, leaning her against the headboard and releasing the spell. His hand traced the contour of her face, thumb tracing over her lips. She felt him sigh. After a moment: "Let me see your hand."

Hermione shook her head quickly. "No," she said, voice shaking. "No, it's fine."

The Master reached out for it anyway, and Hermione whimpered as his large fingers probed their way across her injured bones.

"It's broken," he stated.

"Please…just…"

He shushed her. "_Episky_." The touch of the wand against her hand brought a sharp, crunching pain as the bones snapped themselves together. "It will be tender for a few days." Hermione nodded. "I will have Ziry bring you something for your head. You took quite a spill." Hermione nodded again, chin quivering. He caressed her face once more and planted a soft kiss upon her newly-mended hand, then upon her forehead. "I'm sorry, Jean. I don't want to hurt you."

There was a long moment of silence. Hermione could sense the Master's eyes upon her, at once envious that his magic allowed him to see in the blackness and frustrated that her grief was not private. He rose and parted the curtain, allowing her another glimpse of his massive silhouette.

"Will this happen every night?" she asked, more to herself than to him. The Master heard her, however, and stopped midway through the door. He lowered his head.

"Not every night." And with that, he walked away.

Two nights later, he came down again. She did not resist when he ordered her to the bed. Hermione could tell that he did not simply want to force himself upon her. He touched her face and her arms, kissed her lips and neck, took time in undressing her, letting his fingers linger on her skin. He was trying to make the best out of a bad situation, tried to infuse it with a sense of intimacy and romance. For as hard as he tried, it was useless; nothing changed the fact that she was being taken against her will by a stranger.

Yet she could not bring herself to hate him. Though nameless and faceless, the Master was human, and a complex one at that. He often stayed a while after he was through with her, gathering her in his arms, holding her while she cried but ignoring her tears. Hermione allowed herself to be held: he was all she had. Sometimes they laid in silence, but most nights they talked.

"Where did you go to school, Jean?"

"Hogwarts, sir."

He paused. "You don't have to address me as sir or Master down here, Jean. It's a formality only."

"But at the auct-"

"We were in public. The man I was there and the man I am here are not the same." Hermione thought for a moment, then nodded against his chest. It made sense. Appearance probably meant a great deal in his world, and domination was surely an integral part of that.

"What house were you in?"

"Ravenclaw," Hermione lied without hesitation.

"That was the intelligent house, right?"

"Yes, so they say."

"And you are intelligent?"

"The brightest witch of my year," she mumbled.

The Master laughed. "I bet you were," he said sincerely. A moment later, he kissed her forehead and left for the evening.

A few nights later: "Did you know Potter?"

She had dreaded this question, and her answer made bile rise in her throat. "No better than anyone else. I heard of all the trouble he got into – he was always breaking the rules or crossing his Professors – but he seemed like a good person."

"Were you close to any of his other friends?"

"Not particularly," Hermione said, thinking of Ron and his family, and Neville. "I talked to Luna Lovegood every so often, but she was a bit odd." The Master chuckled indulgently; Hermione immediately regretted saying it.

"How did you end up in Azkaban?"

Hermione thought for a moment. She remembered the auctioneer saying that she did not have a file, meaning that her background – her blood status, why she was in Azkaban, who she _really_ was – remained a mystery. She could be anyone she wanted with any story she could imagine. But how much information would be too much information? She spoke deliberately, determined not to reveal too much.

"I'm Muggle-born. And even though I was in my seventh year – practically a full witch – at the time of the battle, it didn't matter. I was captured and locked away for two years." She winced as her time in Azkaban flashed before her mind's eye. "Then you…"

"I know the rest," the Master interrupted.

He got up to leave and was about to plant his customary kiss on her forehead when Hermione said, "Thank you." He stopped for a moment; she could feel his eyes burning into her own. "You took me out of that place. I don't know if I could have survived any longer. And now I'm down here, with clothes and a bed and a working shower…Just…" Her voice choked with tears: for all he had stolen from her, he had given her much more. This was right – she should be grateful. "Thank you."

The Master kissed her lips. "You're welcome."

Another three nights passed, and this time, Hermione had some questions. "Where were you educated?"

"Durmstrang," he answered. "My parents considered Hogwarts, but they saw the benefit of a more _specialized_ education."

"Did you enjoy it?"

"I did, especially the Quidditch matches. We had some phenomenal players."

"Viktor Krum?" Hermione asked, voiced laced with a smile.

The Master laughed. "Yes. He was only starting by the time I graduated, but even in those first few matches, you could tell he was something. Did you play Quidditch, Jean?"

Now it was Hermione's turn to laugh. "Flying was the one thing I was never good at," she admitted. "It scared the life out of me, actually."

"I would like to see that," the Master said. "You seem so brave most of the time…Maybe a good scare every once in a while is good for you."

"Well, I doubt that will happen any time soon." Though it was said in a light tone, her remark quickly deadened the atmosphere. For a while, she had been functioning under the assumption that she was just a normal girl when the truth was far from it. From the Master's silence, he was coming to that same realization. As much as they liked to talk about things she could do, the reality was that she was a prisoner. She had very limited mobility and absolutely no freedoms. She would probably never be on a broomstick again, or even outside.

She cleared her throat, trying to break the awkward silence. Then, a thought occurred to her. "What if I get pregnant?"

It worked. The Master let out a full laugh. Hermione chuckled along, but half-heartedly. Wasn't this a real concern? What if…

"Jean, that's not possible, so don't even worry about it. There's a contraceptive ward placed on this entire room. Not even a rat could get pregnant in here."

"A contraceptive ward? I thought it was a potion or a charm."

"Spell researchers have become quite creative in the past two years. The invention of that ward was actually key to the success of this program. Without it, you may still be in Azkaban."

When he left her that evening, she stared at the ceiling in wonder. She was only out of Azkaban thanks to a breakthrough in contraceptive technology. She let out a laugh and rolled over, quickly falling asleep.


	7. Ch 7: The Request

**Author's Note:** Hey all! Sorry for the wait (again). Seems to be a theme. I know you all are itching for intrigue, and I promise, give me one more chapter, and you'll get it. Thank you for your patience, as always. Reviews are welcome and encouraged. Enjoy!

**The Request**

Hermione was going on her third month of living with the Master. Her day-to-day routine varied only slightly, dependent on whether the Master came down or not. But either way, she began to grow bored. Inescapably and extremely bored. Once she showered and put on fresh clothes, there was little left to do but eat and sleep. Hermione did plenty of the latter, but she could only rest for so long. She was itching for amusement.

So to entertain herself, Hermione imagined what it was like upstairs. She remembered the grandeur of the foyer and all the passages of the crossroads room. It would be so easy to get lost in those passageways, maybe hide behind a shelf or inside of a large planter. Then she could slip out at night and run away to the woods near the property. Life out there would be hard, but Hermione was a quick learner. She was sure she would be able to survive, at least for a few weeks.

The idea of running away was completely ludicrous, of course. Even if she did manage to make it upstairs and outside, she wasn't sure she _could_ leave. Like it or not, she was bound to the Master. She cared for the man and he cared for her. He relied on her for physical release and, Hermione liked to think, company. He did not have to worry about putting on airs when he was with her. He could relax, say what was on his mind (within limits), and not be subject to society's ample pressures. At least, that's what she _liked_ to think.

One night, after a particularly spirited copulation, he asked her if she was happy with her choices in clothing. She furrowed her brow. "Yes, they're fine. Everything fits."

"But you don't wear it all."

Hermione looked at him, knowing he could see her puzzled expression in the darkness. "What do you mean?"

"All the clothes. You don't wear them."

Hermione was silent for a while, trying to keep the corners of her mouth from twitching into a smile. "I'm confused," she lied.

The Master let out a frustrated huff. "I can't believe you're making me say this…_The lingerie_. You never wear the lingerie. Do you not like them? Are they the wrong size? I had them custom made, and they're charmed to match your shape, but…" The Master trailed off uncertainly and Hermione stifled a giggle. If she didn't know any better, she could have sworn he sounded embarrassed.

"They were options I had never considered. I don't usually wear anything like that." She paused for a moment. "Would you like me to?"

He hesitated before replying. "I wouldn't mind. You have a beautiful body, Jean; no man wouldn't like seeing you a little less composed."

Hermione blushed scarlet, but nodded. "I will consider it."

"That's all I ask."

When he left that evening, she got up and inspected the lingerie drawers. She fingered the silk and lace garments, even selecting a pair to try on. The panties hugged her every curve and the bustier did its job, making her look at least two sizes bigger. "Devices of deception," she marveled, looking down at her newly-found breasts.

She stood in the middle of her room, dressed in nothing but underwear, for a long time. If she agreed to the Master's request, it would mean that she had actively chosen to participate in this…whatever it was. From the moment he started coming down to her, she had been nothing but a shell, a receptacle for whatever he gave her. She never participated; not once did she kiss him in return, thrust her hips to meet his, or even so much as whisper in pleasure. She was sure it wasn't the most enjoyable sexual experience for him either, but that is what he chose. That is all she could do.

But this? She fingered the lace trim. This would signify a change. This would mean that she was more willing to be his, maybe that she was even becoming more comfortable with his visits. And wasn't she? He never hurt her and they had been doing this long enough that she had finally dissociated love and sex, or even intimacy and sex. Was she ready to start connecting the two again? And for this man, of all people?

She glanced around her room, eyes landing on the empty bookshelf. Suddenly, she had an idea.

The next evening, Hermione was ready for him. She was uncomfortable with seduction, but she tried her best, choosing a dark blue baby doll and lacy underwear of the same color. She waited for the characteristic dimming of the hall lights, done so that she couldn't see his face when he entered. Heart racing, she nervously arranged herself on the bed, tossing her curls over her shoulder and facing the cell bars. She heard his breath hitch when he saw her. He closed the curtain and Hermione felt his body on the bed. She sent up a wish: hopefully, this would work.

He took her enthusiastically, obviously pleased with the change. Hermione could not bring herself to participate any more than normal. When he had finished, he gathered her into his arms.

"Thank you," he whispered into her ear. "I didn't actually think you were going to do it. I know what this must have meant to you, but I don't think you know what this means to me."

Hermione's heart fluttered and she closed her eyes as she laid her head against his chest. She felt so guilty, but she needed to do this. "I can't say that my intentions in doing this are completely selfless," she confessed. "I was hoping that if I did something for you, that perhaps you could do something for me."

Hermione felt the Master tense and she lifted herself off him, angling her face toward his.

"Go on."

With a deep, shuddering breath, Hermione said what she had been practicing for an entire day. "When I was at Hogwarts, when everyone else was playing Quidditch or chess, I was reading. It was my passion. Hogwarts had such a fantastic library – I swear, it held every book on every imaginable subject. And if you wanted one which wasn't in stock, you could tell Madam Pince, the librarian, and she would have it for you within the week."

Hermione sighed as she remembered the skeletal old woman. True, she resembled an underfed vulture, her skin as wrinkled and gray as soggy parchment, but years of taking refuge in what Madam Pince regarded as her domicile alone forged an understanding between the two women. Hermione was of the opinion that the librarian was largely misunderstood, although she never would admit it.

"So I was wondering if I could have a book or two. I really don't have a lot to do down here during the day besides eat and sleep; it would be nice to have a distraction. And if I were allowed to read during the day, I could dress up for you more often in the evening. I just…I just hope this isn't too much to ask."

The Master was silent for a long time and, with each minute, her heart broke a little more. She let the silence continue until it was unbearable. Obviously, she _had_ asked too much.

"I'm sorry," she said in a small voice. "Forget it. It was unfair of me to-"

The Master cut her off. "Jean, that's enough. I'll think about it." He kissed her and left for the night, but he did not leave her alone. Now Hermione had something she had been missing for quite some time: hope.

More than a week passed with no nighttime visits. Hermione was understandably concerned about his long absence: the Master had hardly gone three days without visiting her before. The only thing that kept her from wildly questioning Ziry about it was the shred of logic she managed to retain. The Master was an important man, possibly one of the higher-ranking officials in Voldemort's regime. He was probably away on a mission or passing a piece of legislation. Something significant. Why else would he be gone for so long? And besides, if anything happened to him, Hermione would have heard by now.

The Master returned that very night.

"Where were you?" she asked. "I…I was worried."

"Mind your own damned business," he snapped.

Hermione recoiled; he hardly ever used that tone with her. She must have done something wrong. Then, it clicked. "I'm sorry I didn't dress up for you. I didn't know when you would be coming down next, otherwise I would have. Please forgive me?"

He sighed. "It's not that, Jean." There was still a sharp edge to his voice which gave Hermione the feeling that bringing up her request would be a poor choice. His sour mood would only lessen her chances of receiving one. She stared at the ceiling, fortifying herself with patience. She waited this long. A few more days couldn't hurt.

After many more minutes of silence, she felt the Master sit up. "I have considered your request, Jean." Her heart sped up and she sat too, looking at where she imagined his face would be. "You're right: down here in a dark cellar with few enjoyments is no way for a woman to live, especially one who was once so immersed in her studies. Provided your behavior continues to be exemplary, you shall be allowed upstairs for six hours every evening. This should fulfill my end of the bargain."

Hermione was speechless. This did more than fulfill his half; he had exceeded her expectations by leaps and bounds. Finally, she would be allowed to explore some of the mansion. She could stretch her legs and her mind, maybe sit at a window, breathe some fresh air…

"Thank you, Master," Hermione managed to whisper. She hoped her voice sounded as sincere as she felt. "Thank you so much."

"I trust you will keep your end?" Hermione nodded furiously. She could dress up for him every night from now to eternity and it would still not match this kindness. "I shall escort you up tomorrow night. Please, do not make me regret my decision."

"I won't."

"Good."

This time, before he left, _she_ kissed _him_.

The next day was unbearably slow. Hermione woke up much earlier than normal and proceeded to pace around her room. She then took a shower which lasted a little over forty minutes, refolded all of her clothes twice, and tried to clean the bathroom before being shooed away by Ziry. She fiddled with the contents of her treasured cloth pouch and, in a moment of productivity, decided upon a better place to hide it than inside her pillowcase.

Finally, she heard the familiar tread of boots along the corridor. She sat down on her bed, taking measured breaths, trying not to seem too anxious for her little taste of freedom. The lights stayed bright, revealing the Master, decked in his Death Eater mask and robe. With a wave of his wand, he unlocked her cell door and turned around, undoubtedly intending for her to follow him.

"You will be allowed out in the evening. It is now eight p.m. You have six hours, which means that at two a.m. you will be escorted back to your cell." They had exited the dungeons; Hermione's breath caught as she passed the carved doors. "You are not to touch any windows or doors leading outside. They are rigged with security spells that have been adjusted to your touch. If one of them goes off…well, let's just say you don't want one of them to go off. If somehow you do manage to escape, the direct orders are to kill you immediately. These orders will not be disobeyed, and you shall not be shown mercy."

"You are allowed on the first floor only," he said, gesturing around the main foyer. "The only rooms are you are allowed in are the kitchens, library, music room, greenhouse, and the bathrooms. All are specifically marked. If you walk into an undesignated room, I shall know immediately and you shall be punished. You shall arrive back here promptly to be escorted back down to the dungeons. I advise you not to be late."

Hermione looked her Master straight in the face. She did not doubt that he meant the threat of punishment and death; his mask was gruesome, there was no mistaking it. But she couldn't bring herself to be scared of him. She had known this man at his gentlest and they both knew that Hermione wouldn't do anything to warrant any violence against her. At this point, she figured, he would just be hurting himself, too.

"Thank you, sir," she whispered. "I promise I'll be perfect."

He nodded curtly, but Hermione thought she felt a smile. Without another word, he turned and stalked up the stairs, leaving her alone.

She stood there for a moment, watching the space where he disappeared. It seemed surreal to her – to finally be upstairs, to have access to more than just a bathroom and a bed. But where to go first? She glanced at the different hallways, happy they were marked. It would be far too easy to get lost in the sprawling mansion and she did not want to risk setting foot in the incorrect room. After a moment of debate, Hermione decided to visit the library. After all, she _had_ requested a book.

She walked down the appropriately named hallway and found herself looking into the eyes of several confused and crotchety-looking portraits. They stared at her with disdain, some even chancing a shouted insult, but no amount of rudeness could dampen her mood tonight.

Finally, she reached a pair of double doors, next to which was a little gold plaque which read, "Library." With a deep breath and a wide smile, she pushed open the doors. The first thing she noticed, even before the books, were the windows. The large, crystal-clear, picture windows. They stood from floor to ceiling and looked out upon the mansion's backyard. Hermione could discern stables, an orchard, and a small pond. Countless pinpricks of dazzling white stood out against the moonless sky, shining with more radiance than Hermione remembered. It gave her the feeling of being outside, a luxury she had been allowed only once in over two years.

The books took her breath away next. They were all neatly arranged on cases six shelves high. Little gold plaques glinted in the low light; she could just barely read their titles. Slowly walking up and down the aisles, Hermione catalogued the collection; her Master seemed to have books on every subject: history, transfigurations, potions, charms, herbology, astronomy and astrology, Quidditch, runes…Quite a large section was devoted to the Dark Arts, but just as large of a section was devoted to fiction novels.

Hermione was overwhelmed by her choices. As much as she would have liked to read the magical texts to refresh her memory, the old spells and enchantments would be useless without a wand. If her time at Hogwarts taught her anything, it was that magic was not learned simply by memorization, but by practice as well. She contemplated brushing up on her rune translations, but her curiosity was piqued by the novel section. Hogwarts' library did not have a fiction collection, and she had never read a wizarding novel before.

Armchairs, loveseats and ottomans, and full couches were positioned near the windows, as were little coffee tables equipped with quills and parchment for notes. She selected a comfortable-looking loveseat on the right side of the room and settled down contentedly. A candle above her lit with a quiet puff, providing her with adequate light. She glanced up at the great grandfather clock standing along the wall. It was only half past eight. Hermione smiled and sighed, cracking open her book and losing herself in its contents.

Sooner than she would have liked, it was quarter to two. She tore off a piece of parchment, pressed it between the pages of her book to mark her place, and returned it to its home on the shelf as she left. She sighed, wishing that she did not have to leave it so soon. Ziry appeared at the staircase promptly at two and escorted her to the cell, promising to return tomorrow to let her out again. Content with the assurance, Hermione thanked Ziry, washed up, and quickly fell asleep.

The next few days, Hermione explored the other accessible rooms. The kitchens were a complex series of ovens, stoves, refrigerators, and sinks, all made of brushed steel. Pots and pans hung from the ceiling like brass ornaments and sharp, gleaming knives sat on the countertops, ready for use. There were only two house elves on duty, but they were more than ready to cook a five course meal for Hermione had she asked it. Instead, she just took a glass of pumpkin juice and reluctantly accepted a few sweet cakes they forced on her.

The music room was absolutely gorgeous. The walls were deep burgundy and the floors were white marble, swirled with maroon and black. A grand piano stood in one corner and various cream-colored settees were placed around it for listeners. In another corner was a covered harp. Violins, cellos, oboes, flutes, clarinets, and drums were placed strategically around the rest of the room, waiting in their cases, ready to be used. She doubted the Master played at all. Hermione didn't either, but neither did she mind that the instruments were there only to make an impression. She gave a small smile as she fingered the keys of the piano: the Master did what needed to be done. It seemed to be a recurring theme.

The greenhouse was the last place she visited. She could not help but think about Neville and how much he would have enjoyed seeing the Master's collection. Plants Hermione had only read about sat innocently on the shelves, seeming to shift in the low light. She steered clear of the more sinister vegetation to the aromatic flowers. Because it was nighttime, their colorful blooms were closed, but she could still smell a hint of their aroma. Six potted lemon tree saplings sat near a bench, waiting to be put outdoors for the summer. Hermione sat down next to them, inhaling deeply, nose tingling with the light citrus scent. For hours, she laid on that bench and looked at the stars, nearly missing her rendezvous with Ziry.

Hermione tried to divide her time up equally amongst the rooms. When she was feeling feisty, sometimes she would take a book into the conservatory or the greenhouse, but that was about as much as she dared do. The urge to go exploring was strong, though, and it took most of her restraint to refrain from sneaking off down one of the many halls looking for adventure or escape.

She stared out the greenhouse window, fingers hovering inches over the glass. The coolness of the outdoors danced upon her fingertips. She closed her eyes and sighed. Escape was such a fantasy. Hermione wasn't only a prisoner of the Master; she was a prisoner of herself.


	8. Ch 8: Resilience

Author's Note: Sorry about the long wait! Hope this makes up for it a little. :)

**Resilience**

Thanks to the Master's kindness, Hermione regained her sense of time, discovering she was nocturnal after all. Her six hours of active time were in the early evening. If Ziry escorted her back down to her cell, she could usually fall asleep in a few hours. If it was the Master, then she had a few things to take care of before she slept.

But better than reforming a circadian rhythm was being able to actually watch the seasons change. In Azkaban, she could tell by the smell and feel of the wind. But here, she could actually _see_ the changes, nearly touch them when she floated her fingers over the windows. As spring turned to summer, the pond, which had been nearly overflowing with water, developed a thick ring of parched dirt around its edge. The bloated lawn seemed shrunken in the moonlight, but was still a dark shade of green. The Master had the lemon trees from the greenhouse moved outdoors and, at her request, near the library window next to her favorite reading chair. He often left the window open so that she could enjoy the citrusy smell.

Slowly but surely, Hermione began to enjoy her life at the Master's mansion. For who and what she was, she had it pretty good. She had a bed, clean clothes, and a working bathroom. She received three meals a day, was attended to by servants, and was allowed out in the evening. She could read, eat in the kitchen, look at the stars, and had her own copse of lemon trees. True, it was not freedom; seeing the world through a pane of fogged glass differed dramatically from being out in it.

But house arrest, oddly, was the only _real_ pitfall. The Master was kind – much kinder than he was supposed to be, she knew. He was gentle with her, and caring. She didn't want to say he was loving, but there were times when she thought the term might be applicable. One day, she began to wonder if this might actually be the best thing for her, all things considered. Aside from leaving the mansion to go outside, and maybe learning the Master's name, she couldn't ask for more. So, she didn't.

But unfortunately, sometimes _more_ comes whether it is wanted or not.

The day it arrived had been entirely unremarkable. She had spent half the evening in the greenhouse finishing a novel, then relocated to the library. Hermione had recently discovered that the Master's library contained several books mentioning wandless magic. Unfortunately, the pages – or, more accurately, paragraphs – were of little help. One book suggested meditation was a way to locate the core of her magic. If her focus was clear enough, it could be possible to channel it through her fingers. Another said that wandless magic was an innate ability, but that wizarding researchers did not know enough about it to really make a definite statement. The final book she located equated learning wandless magic to teaching a dragon to tap-dance.

All of the books made it perfectly clear that a wand was the most efficient and perhaps the only way to channel magical ability, but Hermione was neither easily dissuaded nor short on time. She devoted at least three hours every night to meditation, pacing her breath and trying to clear her mind. It was difficult and reminded her vaguely of Divination class, but she persisted.

Like all the other nights, Hermione settled onto a chair hidden in a nook near the library door. She folded her legs, closed her eyes, and breathed.

In…

Out…

In…

Out…

Then, a noise. A chair scraping. Voices. Men?

Hermione cracked an eye open in an attempt to keep her meditative state, but her mind had already gone from steady to whirling. The voices were faint, but they were there. Several of them, all male, coming from across the hall. The drawing room?

She sighed; this was unsettling. Hermione had never known the Master to host company. Was he in trouble? And what if she was seen! Her heart skipped a beat as she thought of the consequences, for both her and the Master, if she was caught out of her cell. She _couldn't_ be seen.

As the voices grew softer, her curiosity reached maximum capacity. She reached for a book, opened it to a random page and placed it face-down on the chair. Then, cursing her stupidity, she crept out of the library toward the drawing room door. With agonizingly small movements, Hermione rested her ear upon the door and prayed to whatever Fates controlled her destiny that she would not be heard.

The voices traveled with remarkable clarity. Suddenly aware of her freight-train breathing and the thunderclaps of her heartbeat, Hermione winced. Surely they could hear her as well! The door would open any minute, she knew, and the Master would find her sitting there like a naughty child, eavesdropping. She knew all this, yet did not move except to press her ear closer.

At least six men had assembled. Their conversations were random, quiet, and uninteresting. Suddenly, one voice rang out above the rest.

"Gentlemen, I'm afraid our time is up. Before we adjourn, I wanted to know if everyone is clear on what exactly we are doing. There cannot be any questions or doubts, not when we begin. If anyone wants out, say so now."

Silence.

"Nine pm next week, right here. I trust you all have the coordinates. Meeting adjourned."

A thrill of fear raced up her spine as chairs scraped across the wood floor. Without a moment's hesitation, Hermione launched away from the door, springing to the library in two inhumanly silent leaps. Just as she crossed the library threshold and collided with the cushions of a plush divan, the men walked out of the study with the distinctive echo of dress shoes. One pair of which was headed straight toward the library.

Launching herself back into her chair, she grabbed the book she had left there and held it in front of her face, noticing too late that it was upside down. Eyes wide and frantic, she took shallow, silent breaths, praying that she would not be seen. The man – the Master? – stopped at the threshold. She could hear his breathing and feel his eyes scanning the room. After a long moment, he walked away. Hermione nearly fainted from relief.

The rest of the evening flew by. The accidental intrigue distracted her. The book was only a guise; Hermione stared blankly at its pages as she remembered the snippet of conversation and puzzled out both what it meant and what she would do in a week.

Could that man have been more cryptic? What were they doing? More interestingly, what were they doing that required so much commitment? She sighed and looked at the clock; it was nearly two. She walked back to the foyer where she met the Master.

The usual disconnect Hermione felt was somewhat difficult to achieve tonight. The Master – this man who cared for her, and who she cared for in return – was involved in something apparently permanent and potentially dangerous. She wanted to know what was happening, but admitting to eavesdropping would be a fatal mistake.

"Do you mind me asking where you were tonight, Jean?"

He must have seen her walk out of the library wing. Caught off-guard, Hermione's face betrayed her, eyes widening in shock. Resisting the urge to swear in frustration, she tried to look contemplative instead, probably failing. "The library at first, then I went to the greenhouses to read. I like the sound of the rain on the glass."

She waited with bated breath for his response and thought she felt him sigh. After a few minutes of silence, he bid her goodnight, his lips lingering on her forehead a little longer than usual.

It took her no less than a day to decide that she would be an extra member at their meeting next week. She calculated the risks carefully and often, sifting through the variables and fortifying her justifications. There were several reasons she should not eavesdrop. They may have placed an enchantment on the door stopping her from hearing or one that would alert them if anyone tried. They could have changed the meeting place without her knowledge. Because of last week's close call, they may have suspected she was out there last time. In every scenario, it was likely she would be caught, leading to something terrible, definitely for her and possibly for the Master.

Yet she was willing to put them both at risk. Hermione had a feeling about this meeting. Her friendship with Harry taught her to trust her instincts; her friendship with Ron taught her recklessness; a career at Hogwarts had taught her to trust in fate. Things happened for a reason – whether it was called luck or karma or coincidence, such events should not be ignored. Hermione felt it would be a discredit to her friends and her school to pass on an opportunity like this.

As eight o'clock approached, Hermione waited anxiously on the edge of her bed. A river of "what if" questions flooded her mind and reason begged her to rethink her plan, but her resolution was unwavering. She did not even notice Ziry appear at the bars of her cell.

"Misses looks ill," she remarked.

Hermione must have let her determination show on her face. She was terribly expressive at all the wrong times. "I'm fine, Ziry." The elf looked suspicious; her voice must be off. She tried to soften her tone. "I promise," she said with a forced smile.

Scrutinizing her carefully, Ziry slowly nodded. "Okay Misses, just be carefuls tonight."

Hermione nodded and, once Ziry's back was turned, took a deep breath. That was far too close. She needed to act naturally if she was going to pull this off. Once Ziry left her in the foyer, Hermione headed to the kitchen, then the greenhouse. It would be easier to answer a question with a half-truth than a complete lie. And now the kitchen elves could corroborate her story, if necessary.

With fifteen minutes left to wait, Hermione stole down the hallway toward the library. She snatched a book and took the hidden seat near the door so she could hear. She looked at the grandfather clock in the corner. Ten more minutes.

She held the book limply in her lap, fiddling with its pages and feeling guilty when accidentally ripping one. Everything felt uncomfortable. The chair was too plush, the light was too bright, and the room too cool. Just as it got to be unbearable, she heard several faint, nearly-simultaneous pops. Her eyes shot to the clock. Nine p.m. Perfectly prompt.

Several pairs of feet made their way down the hall toward the drawing room, the Master leading the way. He invited them in and closed the door behind him with a quiet click. Ziry's echoing crack sounded next and, high-pitched voice easily heard through walls, offered to take their cloaks. Another elf cracked into the room and served them drinks and hors d'oeuvres. After the Master dismissed them for the evening, Hermione made her move. Gingerly placing her ear against the door, she closed her eyes and listened.

"Now that we're all present," said the same voice from last week, "we shall call the meeting to order. We laid forth the terms of our engagement last week, but I feel that a refresher is in order. We are gathered here of our own free will, representing a powerful group of men with eyes and ears in the right places. Our aim is to aid the Dark Lord. Too proud to accept our help, we will be forced to act in secret. Does that sound like what we discussed?"

Murmurs of assent.

"And a name? Has anyone thought of anything better than Resilience?"

Silence.

"Good," the man said sharply. "Our job is simple: we will monitor our connections and keep detailed and careful note of suspicious activity. Any signs of malcontent, heresy or a coup are to be reported to the group immediately. Appropriate action will then be discussed and taken. If it is something we can handle, then we will. But if it is something serious – irrefutable evidence of an uprising or a plot to kill our Lord, for example," Hermione thought she heard chuckles, "the leader of us shall alert the Dark Lord."

"This brings me to my next point," the man continued. "A leader. We need one. Any volunteers?"

No one spoke.

After a minute, the temporary head spoke again. "I understand your reluctance; we are moving down a dangerous path towards an uncertain future. I would volunteer, but I am old and the Dark Lord's reign will be long. We need a young man who will be around for a while: a permanent director. Consider what you have to lose, brothers, and more importantly, what you have to gain. We shall reach a decision by the end of the meeting. In the meantime, to our first order of business. We are all familiar with the Dark Lord's new identification policy, although I'm sure we are all quite puzzled as to what he expects to come from it. Any ideas?"

"He's extending his control!" said one zealous voice. "That's all this policy is…just another way to control."

"No," spoke another in hushed tones. "No, it's not _just_ another way to control…it's a _conspiracy_!" Hermione had to stifle a laugh.

Another man spoke. "Draunet, you idiot, it's not a conspiracy! _We_ are the conspiracy!"

"That's exactly what they want you to think!" Draunet countered.

The other man huffed. "The Dark Lord does not work in subtleties!"

"But we must!" hissed the temporary leader. "Quiet yourself, Trundle. Show some restraint!"

A tense silence descended over the room.

"Trundle was right," said a quiet voice from the back of the room. "It is just control. Branding everyone but Purebloods with a symbol defining their status...requiring it to be kept in sight at all times…That's control and intimidation. I believe the Muggles used something similar in their history."

"And how would you know about the Muggles?" drawled an incredulous voice with an American accent.

She could hear the smile on the man's reply. "Know thy enemy."

"But I heard they were implanting a device," whispered Draunet. "A device that could hear your thoughts!"

Nervous chuckles swept the table. "No," said a man in lightly accented Russian. "There are no such devices. Not yet. I am sure the Dark Lord 'as people on it as we speak."

"So how do we help him?" prompted the temporary leader of Resilience. "What can we do?"

This time, several voices spoke at once.

"Leave it to the Enforcers!" said Trundle. "This isn't important enough for us to get involved in."

"Catch one and investigate the branding!" Draunet was obviously reluctant to let go of his conspiracy theory.

"Report it to the Dark Lord!" spoke a deep voice.

"Wait a while…see what happens before taking any action," said the Master.

It was getting out of control. The men started quarrelling amongst themselves, voices rising in heated debate. The head tried to maintain order, but just added more noise to the cacophony.

Then, in a voice so quiet Hermione could barely hear, a man said, "No." Everyone quieted. "Here is what we will do. I have a connection in the Dark Lord's inner circle. I can get the names of the registered Halfbloods. Once the branding is complete, we can watch them, making sure the Dark Lord's order is enforced. If we find it is not, we will take it upon ourselves to rectify the matter."

The room was silent. Then, Trundle spoke up. "I believe you're quite right, boy. For as young as you are, you do know what you're doing." After a short pause, he said, "I think he should be the leader of Resilience."

With almost no hesitation came several other, "Ayes." The leader sighed. "Well, that was easy. Congratulations on becoming the leader of Resilience, Mr. Malfoy. However reluctantly, you will lead us to wherever we need go."


	9. Ch 9: Mirror, Mirror

**Mirror, Mirror**

_Malfoy._

Her head spun. Her vision blurred. Blood pounded through her ears as she tried to remember how to inhale. She hardly noticed when her body took a step back, removing itself from the door in an act of self-preservation. But it was too late: the life that Hermione had built around herself crumbled like the cheap façade it was, exposing the frayed ends of her sanity.

_Malfoy._

It was him.

But what were the chances? What were the chances that he would know the Master, that they would be part of the same clandestine group that conveniently met at _this_ mansion, that he would be separated from her now by a mere doorway? After this long?

Hermione shook her head. In a rational world, the chances would be slim. But this world was the polar opposite of rational and this discovery was more than coincidence. This was planned. A shiver raced up her spine.

This was _fate_.

A host of far more serious questions zigzagged across her mind; Hermione suddenly became very dizzy. Her body took another step backward and rested itself against the opposite wall, earning a muffled "Harumph" from a bothered portrait.

Did he know she was here? If he did, did he know how much freedom she had – that she was allowed out in the evenings, free to listen at doorways to covert meetings at late hours? But most importantly: if he knew, why didn't he try to save her?

Hermione bit her bottom lip hard, fighting the instinct to sob. She seriously considered returning to her cell early when she heard the men offer Draco a round of congratulations. The return of her focus jolted her body. The meeting was not over yet. She took a deep, shuddering breath and reclaimed her station at the door, pressing her ear to it just in time to hear the scrape of a chair across the floor. She heard him sigh as he rose slowly. "Thank you all for this honor."

Hermione shivered again. His voice sounded so familiar now. She wondered why she had not recognized it before: its low timbre, his subtle, ever-changing tones, the drawl he could never manage to completely eradicate…

"I will try my hardest to lead Resilience in the way it was meant to be led: with a firm guiding hand and open eyes and ears. I will make this perfectly clear: no man can be out for himself. We are a team. There will be honesty and trust. Anything that I know, I shall relay to you. I expect the same courtesy in return. Am I understood?" The men nearly chorused their assent. "Good," he said. "I shall alert you all when the next meeting is to be held. So as not to arouse suspicion, they should not be on a regular basis. We are adjourned for the evening. I'll be in touch."

As wood scraped against wood, Hermione fled to the library. But instead of taking up sanctuary on her usual chair, she waited at the door, back pressed against the wall.

She had to see him. Even though she knew – honestly, it could be no one else – she had to see him. She had to be sure. The Master's low voice rumbled down the hall as he escorted the men to the foyer, what Hermione assumed was the designated Apparation point. The drawing room door closed with a quiet click. With a deep breath, Hermione peeked around the corner.

The clean-cut platinum blond hair. The long nose. The pointed face. The slope of his shoulders as they met the breadth of his back. The long legs. Merlin, even the lingering scent of his aftershave.

Draco Malfoy.

He removed his hand from the door slowly, carefully, and leaned his head against the carvings, where not but a minute before, Hermione had leaned her head. His back heaved with a sigh as he closed his eyes and frowned a little. After a moment, he looked at her.

Steel met cinnamon and Hermione froze. His eyes…she had nearly forgotten the power of those eyes. They were infinite and intense, boring straight down into her core. They were exposing, stripping away the layers of hurt and intolerance, and for just that moment, Hermione was herself again. She was the seventeen year old witch at Hogwarts, best friend to Harry Potter and Ronald Weasley. She was the infuriating know-it-all, the bane of Snape and the pride of McGonagall. She was the bushy-haired, brown-eyed, love-struck girl, completely infatuated with Draco Malfoy and naïve enough to believe that he was just as smitten with her. His smoldering eyes firmly rooted her to the ground, but Hermione felt lighter than air.

In two seconds, the moment passed. Her chest heaved with the sudden intake of air and her brain whizzed with thoughts anew, dissecting the situation.

Draco seemed completely unmoved to find Hermione staring at him from the library doorway. He seemed to expect it, like perhaps if she had not been there, then he really would have been upset. But how could that be? He should be surprised she was alive, not to mention recognizable after the years of torture she endured!

But he wasn't. Not even a little.

After what felt like an eternity, Draco broke eye contact with her and walked away without a backward glance. Unable to think, and honestly having quite a bit of trouble breathing, Hermione stiffly lowered herself into the nearest armchair and sat there with her head in her hands until she heard the clock chimed two.

She hardly remembered walking to the foyer until Ziry started to speak. "Misses does not looks so good," she said reproachfully. "Ziry told Misses to be carefuls and Misses did not listen." The elf sounded just about as miserable as Hermione felt.

Hermione forced a guilty smile. "Perhaps you were right, Ziry. I am feeling a little under the weather. I'm sorry for not listening to you." This seemed to hearten the elf. "I hope that the Master will not take my lack of sense out on you. Please, if he asks, tell him that it was my fault. I will take whatever punishment he deems fit."

By now, the elf was smiling, probably relishing the rare apology. "Thank you, Misses," she said in a contained, happy squeak. "If her Master asks, Ziry will tell him the truth."

Hermione smiled as she was led down the narrow path to her cell. Somehow, Hermione kept herself together until Ziry left her cell. She barricaded herself in the bathroom and stood at the sink, hands on either side of chipped white porcelain for support.

Her first order of business was the mirror – the unmovable, unbreakable, brutally honest piece of reflective metal and glass that would give her the truth. She stared at the sink, counting the seconds between each drop of water from the leaky faucet, steeling herself for what she now desperately longed to see. It was not for her own satisfaction, but more to satisfy a chunk of morbid curiosity: what had Draco seen tonight?

With a deep breath, she opened her eyes, which widened in terror. The woman in the mirror was a stranger. Hermione was a young witch, no older than twenty. The woman staring back at her looked thirty. Hermione's brown eyes shone; the stranger's were aged and weary, as if they had experienced too much too quickly. Hermione's face was full of youthful exuberance; the stranger's, though mercifully unlined, was pale and drawn. Hermione's hair was brown and curly and, though sometimes unmanageable, still rather pretty; nothing compared to the matted, tangled, and dull locks of the woman in the mirror.

She stepped closer and touched the glass with hesitant fingertips. The stranger had started to cry, but Hermione felt the tears rolling down her _own_ cheeks.

Draco had looked so normal, so unchanged from two and a half years ago. His pronounced features had matured, but they had done so according to time's demands, not the accelerated force to which Hermione alone seemed susceptible.

Hermione had never been vain, but now that she looked like a broken and battered woman, it was hard not to feel that way. Suddenly, it was very clear why the Master liked complete darkness when he came to her: if the light touched her face, it would extinguish even the headiest man's desire.

She turned away from the mirror in shame and dropped to the floor, mourning what she had become. Hermione was a woman of two parts. The woman outside of the mirror wanted to hate Draco for what he had done to her. She wanted to hold a grudge, to hurt him like she had been hurt. She wanted to be angry and vengeful and she wanted him to suffer. But the woman inside the mirror – that pathetic waif, that beaten dormouse – wanted to forgive him. She wanted to be held and cared for. The woman inside the mirror wanted to live in a fantasy, where the hell around her did not exist. The woman inside the mirror wanted to be loved.

Hermione knew which one she _really_ was. The sobs which escaped her lips were inhumanly painful, but the question which ripped apart her soul was why. Why didn't he come for her sooner? Why didn't he love her?

With no breath left in her lungs and her eyes blinded by scalding tears, Hermione stumbled to her bureau. She reached into the top drawer, all the way to the back, and grabbed her lifeline: a worn cloth pouch. She fell to her knees at the side of her bed and dumped the contents onto the bedspread. Somehow, the silver of her bracelet found just enough light to sparkle. The charms jingled on the comforter like light laughter. A phoenix, a lion, and a dragon.

A memory struck her like lightening.

_ They were lying in his bed. One of her legs was draped across him and her head rested on his chest. The blankets were shoved to the foot of the bed, forgotten during their lovemaking. Moonlight streamed through the partially opened windows and bounced off the silver charm bracelet dangling off Hermione's wrist. Reflections from it danced on both their features._

_ "Do you like it?" said Draco. He rolled onto his side to look at her better. Hermione shifted with him._

_ "Well, black linens wouldn't be my first choice, but they suit you well."_

_ He chuckled and kissed her nose. "This, you silly girl," he said with a caress to her wrist. "The bracelet."_

_ Hermione smiled and lifted it off the blankets, giving it an appraising look. Draco's worried expression made her giggle. _

"_It's alright," she said with a teasing smile._

_His face took on an air of comedic affront. "Why you little fox!" he scolded. "I see how it is now." He turned his face away from hers in mock-hurt. A trail of kisses up his neck encouraged him to look back and her lips eventually found his._

"_I love it, Draco." She gave him another soft kiss as additional insurance._

_ "Good." Hermione felt his body relax. They were silent for a moment._

_ "Do you mean them?"_

_Draco looked into her eyes. Hermione felt at once vulnerable and secure. The hint of a blush tempted her cheeks. Draco pretended not to notice. "I do," he said simply. "The lion – for your house, but also for leadership and courage and pride. Everything I admire about you."_

_ "_All_ you admire about me?" Hermione asked with a grin._

"_Well, there are a few more admirable things about you, I suppose…" His voice dropped an octave lower. "Although none that would make a proper bauble…" His hand traced from her legs to the curve of her breasts, coming to rest atop one. Hermione blushed pleasantly; this time, Draco noticed. _

_ "The dragon," he continued with a smile, "my own personal embodiment. And the phoenix, everlasting. No matter how many times it dies, it's always reborn, never forgotten. Like no matter what happens between us, we'll never forget each other. He kissed her softly on the lips and continued playing with the charms. "So do I mean them? Of course," he said between kisses. "And no matter what happens, I always will."_

XOX

A week passed. To her knowledge, no meetings were held and nothing in the house changed except for Hermione's thoughts. Once, Draco was a fleeting notion; now he was an obsession. It was maddening.

Every night, she went to the library and sat by the door, listening for deep voices. Every night, she was disappointed. By Wednesday, it occurred to her that they may have changed the location. Draco did see her, after all, and would expect her to eavesdrop.

To make up for this oversight, she would visit all four locations in one night. It was suspicious but she didn't care about being subtle. She needed to learn more about Resilience and about Draco. Nothing could stop her.

Had Hermione actually opened her eyes, perhaps she would have noticed the changes occurring around her. The library was meticulously tidied; all the books she kept out for her personal use were returned to their original positions. The greenhouse vegetation was preened and plucked. Shipments of expensive and exotic plants arrived by the day and were strategically placed about the mansion. The music room was in a state of flux. Experts were ushered in and out to tune the various instruments and replace those that were broken with more modern, more costly versions. But the kitchens were absolute pandemonium. Owls swooped in and out of the open windows almost constantly. The two kitchen elves were usually able to handle even the busiest flow of traffic with ease, but were forced to take on two apprentices.

The house itself was being cleaned from cellar to attic, meaning that the usually-unseen Muggle staff clustered in groups of two to four per room, armed with rags, buckets, and cleaning products. The staff seemed to increase by double nearly overnight.

Unfortunately, Hermione saw none of this, so it came as a complete surprise to her when, one night, an unfamiliar Muggle servant came down to her instead of Ziry. Before she could ask a question, the man shoved a bag between the bars of her cell and let it drop to the floor. The dungeon door slammed shut before Hermione even reached the bag.

"That was strange," she mumbled, pressing her forehead against the bars. She sighed and opened the package, which contained a sandwich, an apple, carrots, a small container of tarts, and a flask of water. She looked up from the bag with a perplexed expression. Was this her dinner? What about Ziry? Where was her usual tray of hot food?

Hermione ate at her desk and ate slowly, wondering what she did wrong. Ideas flitted through her head, but only one made sense: the Master must have noticed her flighty behavior and deduced that she knew about the Resilience meetings. Even though he had no proof, Hermione knew he did not need it. Suspicion alone was probably grounds for a death sentence.

About twenty minutes after Hermione had finished, a grey-haired maid came down. Hermione's readjusted biological clock told her that it was time for her to be escorted upstairs. Hermione stood expectantly near the cell door. The maid stood in the same mien across from her.

A minute of silence passed. "Um…" Hermione started.

The maid cut her off tersely. "Your garbage."

She was momentarily affronted, but then the maid pointed to the empty paper sack. "Oh, okay." Hermione fetched the bag and slipped it through the bars. The maid accepted it and then walked away.

"Wait!" she yelled at the old woman's receding back. "Wait, aren't you going to let me out?"

The dungeon door slammed once more. Hermione rested her head on the cold metal bars and looked longingly down the hall. Her theory was confirmed. Bagged dinner, a night locked in her cell…The Master would probably be down shortly to deal with her. She sighed deeply and remained still, the bars cooling her hot forehead.

Suddenly, the quiet around her was interrupted with pops, sharp footsteps, muffled voices, and muted classical music. Hermione smiled and shook her head. Of course: the Master was having company! Relieved she wasn't in trouble, she backed away from the bars and laid on her bed, staring at the ceiling.

The night passed slowly. Hermione tried to rest but was unable to tune out the faint goings-on from upstairs. Occasionally, she would break out of her daydreaming long enough to wonder what it all could be about.


	10. Ch 10: Closed Curtain

**Closed Curtain**

The Master's Pureblood party lasted long into the night. Hermione knew it was a black-tie affair; how could a Pureblood party be anything less? Only the most prominent in society were invited for the sole purpose of gossiping about those who were not. There would be fancy hors d'oeuvres and expensive cocktails, then a meal with at least five courses. Death Eaters would be dressed in their finest black robes, a wife or a mistress – sheathed in long, elegant dresses – hanging off their arms. Hair would be slicked back or curled to cascading perfection. Wristwatches and diamond necklaces would sparkle as they caught the flickering candlelight. Smiles were exaggerated, eyes sharp, and the atmosphere cunning. Pithy talk about the weather or the newest import of red wine from France hid separate agendas. The dinner was very quiet. For all Hermione knew, Voldemort himself could have been in attendance.

Searing hatred coursed through her at the thought of him. Unlike many, she was not afraid of him, for in order to fear, the victim must have something to lose. Hermione had already lost everything, hadn't she? Family, friends, dignity, freedom, wand…Was there anything else?

The noise increased as the night carried on due to, Hermione suspected, steady alcohol consumption. Booming laughter and screeching twitters drove her mad. All she wanted to do was sleep.

She stepped into the bathroom to take care of her nightly toilette, carefully avoiding contact with the foreign woman in the mirror. When she stepped back out of the bathroom, her room was dark as pitch.

The red curtain was closed.

Hermione's breath caught. The Master would never leave his own party, especially just to visit what is always available for him, but neither would he tell someone else where she was. She was his property and his alone. That was quite clear. Logically, then, whoever this was had to have found her on his own. She backed against her desk, far away from the barred wall and, hopefully, from whoever was in her room.

"_Lumos_," whispered a deep voice. The light cast unfriendly shadows around the room, but none so threatening than those on her visitor's face, or what little of it she could see. His hood was up and his head downcast. He stared intently at the corner of the room, holding the wand away from his face in his right hand. All Hermione could see what the shadowed outline of his strong, pointed chin.

"What do you want?" Her voice sounded stronger than she felt.

"What is your purpose?"

The quip stung. Hermione raised her head high, somehow keeping her mouth impassive while her eyes flashed.

"I'm sure you have your own toy," she shot back. "I should be of little interest to you."

The man gave a throaty chuckle and inclined his head toward her. She could now see his lips, which were curved into the perfect little grin; she suddenly had the urge to hit something. "My _toy_ is nowhere near as fine a creature as you," the man said, lips not breaking the smirk. "And not nearly so loquacious."

She chose to ignore the thinly-veiled insult. Instead, Hermione, laughed – a sharp, derisive sound that surprised her. So this was how it was going to be. Fine. She would play. "That is all I am to you, yes? A _creature_? Something to be mistreated and lied to?"

"To some, perhaps."

"To all, it seems," she sneered. "Else why would I be down here?"

"Have you ever considered that this is for your own good? That if you were free, you would be killed?"

"Have you ever considered that as the preferable option?"

"Then why haven't you tried to escape?"

Hermione scowled. "I don't need to explain myself to you."

"You have the resources," he continued, ignoring her. "You are bright, competent and allowed upstairs, if I'm not mistaken. There has to be something keeping you here. So what is it? Protection? Friendship? Love?"

Finally, Hermione snapped. "Cut the shit, _Draco_," she hissed. "What do you want from me?"

The man stiffened and mechanically lowered his hood. And just like that, there he was, a mere meter away.

In the wandlight, Hermione changed her mind: Draco was different. His face and eyes had sunken into his skull, like hers. His skin was pulled, further defining his already angular cheekbones and nose. He was so pale it bordered on sickly and, maybe it was just the poor lighting, but the outline of a scar ran down his left jaw line. His grey eyes, while full of fire, were those of a forty year old man. Like hers, they had seen too much too quickly. Although much of this could have been a trick of the shadows, his eyes, at least, were honest: she recognized that same haunted look in her own.

"What do you want?" she repeated.

"Would you believe me if I said I wanted to see you?"

"No," was her unhesitating reply.

Draco nodded. "Well, there's this party, you see…"

"Are you incapable of giving a straight answer?"

"You didn't believe me the first time. I'll repeat myself, if you like."

"You are being intentionally dense, Malfoy, and it's not appreciated. You disappeared out of my life for two and a half years and now just happen to show up at my Master's party and find me in his cellar. Am I supposed to believe this is a coincidence?"

"He is not your master," Draco corrected quietly.

A spark of outrage coursed through Hermione's body. "How dare you? That man saved me from Azkaban. He's fed me, clothed me, and protected me. I owe him everything! _He_ is the one with power over me! _He_ is the one who can claim a bit of myself as his own! He is my _Master_, and he's done more for me than you ever have!" She was barely able to restrain her tears.

Draco was silent as Hermione caught her breath. Her body shook violently, needing to sit down but unable to abide him standing over her. There was a long moment of silence, punctuated only by their breathing. Finally, she felt like she could speak.

"How did you find me?"

Draco became very interested in the floor. "I have my connections."

"I don't believe you," Hermione scoffed without as much as an appraising look. "Not a word of what you're feeding me is true. What are you planning?"

This piqued his interest. "Planning? Me?" He chuckled deep in his throat. "Now when have you known me to plan?" A sparkle appeared in his eyes, one that Hermione had not seen since their Hogwarts days. She was immediately taken back to the good times they had together, the times they joked and laughed until their sides hurt. She hated loving every single flashback.

Pushing the memories away, she glared at him, not saying a word.

"And you sound so sure of it. How would you have come across any sort of plan without listening at doors?" He quirked an eyebrow; she wanted to slap him.

"I wouldn't." Hermione struggled to keep the blush off her cheeks. "So I don't."

"The library?"

"Coincidence," she said quickly. "I heard noise. I was curious."

"A likely story…" he muttered. He narrowed his still-sparkling eyes and looked at her skeptically, a small smirk gracing his lips. It was strange – in the wandlight, the smirk made his face look younger, normal.

Draco sighed. "If you must know, your _master_ decided to throw a party celebrating the Dark Lord's new edicts. After all, it has been two and a half years since Potter died and the Order fell, like you said," he drawled. Hermione shivered as he spoke. "The lower class is getting ideas. This party was very well publicized. It is simply our way of asserting control, showing that we are still better than they are."

"You're despicable," she spat.

Draco just gave a wry smile. "One does what one needs to survive. You should know this more than anyone."

There was a long moment of silence. Hermione had run out of things to say. So, apparently, had Draco.

Suddenly, there was a loud crash from overhead, accompanied by several shouts and tinkling glass. Hermione glanced at the ceiling and back to Draco. "You had better leave," she said. "It sounds like the party is over now and I don't know what the Master will do to me if he finds you down here."

Her eyes barely shone with tears but as Draco caught her gaze, they filled of their own accord. His expression softened.

"Hermione…" he whispered, taking a step closer and outstretching his hand.

Automatically, she turned away, eyes downcast in shame. Sensing Draco's confusion and hurt, she explained. "I've learned not to trust an approaching hand. It's instinct now more than anything..."

Draco's expression hardened. He turned to go, and just as he was about to raise the curtain, words leapt out of Hermione's mouth – words which she vowed not to say to him.

"Draco, I need to know, please…"

His shoulders stiffed. "I've told you," he said mechanically. "A thousand times I've told you and the answer remains the same."

Everything, all the hurt she had suffered and all the hope she had built up in anticipation of an answer, came crashing down around her. Scalding tears fell from her eyes. "I don't understand," she said, voice quavering.

"Neither do I." Draco sounded defeated and his shoulders slumped as if in agreement. "I'll see you soon, Hermione." Without another word of goodbye or a single glance back, Draco left her.

When the dungeon door closed with a slam, Hermione fell into a fit of hysterics. Her heart raced, beating against her breast so hard that she thought it would show through her shirt. Her chest heaved as she took shallow, rapid breaths and her body shook so much that it was all she could do to keep from falling onto the floor.

Unsteadily, she made her way to the bureau and yanked open the top drawer, throwing large fistfuls of lace and satin to the floor until it was empty. She grabbed twice at the back corner before her fingers made contact and could barely fasten the charm bracelet around her wrist. When the unfamiliar wave of warm magic rush over her, she collapsed onto her bed, sobbing into her arms.

How had this happened?

Eventually, she ran out of tears, left with only a pounding headache and puffy eyes. She went into the bathroom to wash her face, hoping the cool water would soothe her troubled mind. Face dripping, she looked into the mirror.

Her eyes were red-rimmed, her nose red, and her hair disheveled. But for some reason, the woman in the mirror was more familiar. Her ancient brown eyes were still alien, but there was something about her face that seemed less horrific. Like with Draco's return, she had regained part of herself, if even for a night.

"It's hopeless," she muttered, shaking her head. "Completely hopeless."

She exited the bathroom and once more found herself immersed in inky darkness.

"To the bed, Jean," came the Master's deep voice.

Hermione took a breath. "Yes, Mas-"

Draco's voice then resonated through her skull. _He is not your master_.

For a crazy moment, his words sounded sane.

"No."

The Master was silent for a moment. "Excuse me?"

Hermione took a steadying breath; she could not believe she was doing this…

"No," she repeated forcefully. "Not tonight. Please."

He was silent again. "Have you forgotten yourself so quickly? Do you remember your position here? Do you remember _what you are_?" he hissed.

"I don't want to be that any more. I don't want to be your whore." She then realized that this was it – this was the choice, the choice everyone had. Either to submit or to disobey. To take the easy way out or to fight. In a moment of clarity, she knew what her choice would be. What her choice _must_ be, at least for tonight.

She heard him rise from the bed. "You think this is wise?" he said, stepping close to her. Hermione felt his presence like the cold chill of winter.

"No. But I do think it's right."

He trailed a finger down her cheek, causing her to shudder. "Well, you're wrong," he answered her. The whiskey on his breath made her stomach churn. "I will give you one last chance, Jean," he whispered into her ear. "Get. In. Bed."

Hermione did not move.

The Master growled deep in his throat and grabbed her arms, bodily swinging her around. And in a flash, it was like the first time. Hermione struggled against him with all she had, this time not only for her dignity but to prove to herself that she was not merely a rich man's possession.

By the time he finished, Hermione was nearly broken, only dimly aware that he left. As soon as the dungeon door shut, so did her eyes and she fell into blissful unconsciousness.

She woke the next morning and did not move for hours. What she did last night was right, she was sure of it. But why did she feel so terrible? Why did she feel like she had deeply betrayed her Master and, in turn, herself?

Silently, she cursed. She did not think of the consequences of her misbehavior. Would she be let out now or would she again be confined to the dungeons? The time she spent upstairs was the best part of every day and possibly the only thing keeping her sane. What would happen now that she had displeased him?

Neither Ziry nor the Master came down that night. The following days of confinement were unbearable. But on the third day, the Master came to her.

Hermione's pride nearly got in the way of her supplications, but captivity had turned her into an opportunist. She needed to get out of the dungeon. She needed to regain the Master's trust, which meant that she needed to beg.

"Sir, please, wait."

He stopped and did not turn to face her. Hermione took this as a cue to continue.

"Master, I don't know what came over me a few nights ago…I shouldn't have disobeyed you. You've done so much for me and you deserve better than what I can give you…" Her voice was thick with sincerity. "Please, forgive me."

Tears fell from her eyes. She heard the Master moving and started a little when his large hand cupped her chin. "Jean, you have a sharp tongue and an impetuous attitude – both qualities which I admire in a woman, believe it or not. But when coupled with disobedience, I have no choice but to discipline you. We both have to remember our place." He ran his thumb over her lips gently. "Please don't make me do it again," he whispered. With a final kiss to her lips, he left. Hermione slept easy that night.

The next evening, Ziry appeared in her room at the assigned hour. Hermione did not bother to hide her smile. She made her way to the greenhouse first and, upon entering the glass structure, burst into tears. Here were the stars again, the outside, or as close as she could get to it. Two days ago, it seemed like she would never have this chance again. The Master was merciful.

She smiled at the heavens and calmed down enough to go to the library, where she promptly started to cry once more. It all seemed so surreal now, so wonderfully surreal.

As Hermione fell into her usual chair, she was startled at the complete lack of silence in the normally noiseless room. Men were yelling and they were making no attempt to disguise themselves.

Hermione was torn. One part of her was very curious: was this another Resilience meeting? Draco did say that he would see her again soon…Was this his way of fulfilling that promise?

But the other part of her, in fact, the overwhelming majority, screamed caution. She had just spent two days locked in the dungeon. She did not want that to happen again, and eavesdropping was the surest way to earn her another stint of isolation, if not something worse.

Her gaze flickered between the books and the door. She swore silently and crept towards the door, damning her insatiable curiosity. She recognized the voices immediately: Resilience.

She heard the Master exclaim loudly and hit the table hard. Hermione flinched, feeling an odd wave of pity for the table; she knew first-hand what those fists were capable of, and did not envy _anything_, living or not, on the wrong side of one.

"This will never work!" he shouted. "It's going too far for too little of a chance!"

"I agree with Brannon," said Draunet, the conspiracy theorist. Hermione gasped again. _Brannon_…Her Master's name. "It's too risky. And that's asking quite a sacrifice of Brannon – one that I doubt any one of us would like to make, I'm sure!"

The table fell silent as the men thought. "He can always get a new one…" offered one man.

Her Master was silent for a long moment, then growled. "How will we get her in? How will she survive there? How can we assure success? No, there are far too many variables to consider."

"But is it a necessary one, Brannon?" asked Draco, speaking for the first time since Hermione started listening. "That is what you have to ask yourself. Is it a _necessary_ risk?"

Brannon grumbled in what Hermione assumed was a noncommittal answer, then said loudly, "Even if it _could_ work, she would never submit!"

She heard Draco chuckle. "Not like that matters, but why don't you ask her yourself?" he said with a smile. "She's right outside the door."


	11. Ch 11: The Dragon's Keep

Author's Note: Nothing to say here, really. Enjoy!

**The Dragon's Keep**

Hermione's eyes opened wide and, before she could scramble to the library, the carved door was yanked open and a pair of incredulous hazel eyes looked down at her.

It took Brannon a moment to register what he saw. It took another moment for him to wipe his face of any concern, and yet another to replace it with a mask of raw fury. "_You_," he hissed, taking a handful of her hair. He dragged her into the study and shoved her to the ground. Six chairs simultaneously scraped the floor as the men of Resilience stood to look at her.

Hermione kept her head down, brown curls veiling her face, in an effort to save her dignity. She was sure she made quite a sight, face flushed with embarrassment and eyes filled with reflexive tears. She did not want these men to see the fear she felt.

For a minute which seemed to last a year, they were utterly silent. Then, one of the men sighed. Another shuffled nervously.

"Well," Draco said, "here she is, gentlemen." The heels of his impeccably shined dress shoes clicked upon the wood floor as he walked toward her. "What do you think?"

Hermione looked up through her hair at the members of Resilience. They were silent once more, looking from her, to Draco, to each other, and back to her again. After a spell, Trundle, a rather stout man with a bushy brown moustache, spoke.

"I think we're royally fucked."

"Oh come now," Draco scoffed good-naturedly. "Have you such little faith?"

"Malfoy, look at her! She's pathetic!"

"Trundle has a point," said a man in a business suit whose lip curled in disgust. "She's positively ragged." Indignation flared through her body. The insults continued.

"She's scrawny…filthy..."

"She looks a little dull…are you sure she's mentally competent?"

Hermione had just about had enough when Brannon stepped in front of her. "Looks are deceiving, gentlemen. She was top of her class in Ravenclaw House. Her every waking moment was spent in the library and she has managed to survive this long being what she is."

"Someone sounds a bit smitten," jibed Draunet with a smirk. Hermione looked to her left and saw that the man looked just as mental as he sounded. He was thin with wild, stringy hair and darting blue eyes. How he could be included in such a group was a mystery to her.

The Master growled something about a hex before Draco stepped in to calm the two men. While he pacified Draunet, Brannon looked at her and for the first time, she actually saw him. Brannon's large build was echoed in his face, which was square-shaped and robust. His short brown hair barely touched his high forehead. He had a slightly squashed nose, and a small cleft in his chin. He was not entirely unpleasant and perhaps under different circumstances, in a different life...Hermione chanced a small smile. It did not make him smile, but it did soften his eyes.

"Brannon, what do you think?" asked Malfoy.

He did not look away from her. "I cannot allow it."

The man standing next to Draunet groaned loudly. Brannon rounded on him. "Something to add, Costinov?"

Hermione snuck a look and saw a man with a dark goatee step forward. "Yes," he said in a voice lightly accented with Russian. "We need this girl. You know we do."

"Can't you just get another?" drawled an American man with brown hair and impatient eyes. "Or two? Who cares? This one is expendable. If she fails, we can always get another." He looked at his watch and tapped his foot impatiently.

"I don't want another, Smithe. This one cost me enough as it is!" Hermione remembered her final selling price at that hideous Azkaban auction. She was one hundred Galleons…and he thought that was too much? How much did men usually pay for such indulgences? She shuddered at the memory and felt a weird sense of déjà vu: what was happening now was far too similar to that auction for Hermione's comfort.

"What if we could get you another at no cost?" offered the dark-skinned man next to Smithe. Brannon was about to refuse when he spoke again. "Two?" he asked with a quirked eyebrow.

"At no cost, Aberjeen?" asked Costinov, one dark eyebrow raised. "How?"

"None of your concern, I'm sure," Aberjeen admonished. "You must admit Brannon…surely this one is getting a little…_worn_?" Hermione bristled. "Maybe you want something new…_two…_something new? Smithe is right: she is easily replaceable."

Hermione was quickly becoming disgusted with this man…with _all_ of these men. They spoke as if she was not even present, offhandedly deciding her future, except for Draco. Hermione absently wondered why he stayed silent, but the thought never lingered: she was too focused on keeping her head down and her mouth shut.

Within a few minutes, the deliberation over the value of her life had escalated. Smithe's infuriating nonchalance had gotten the better of Brannon, who threatened to take out his wand. Smithe was more than happy to fight and was trying to shake off Trundle's restraining hand. Draunet was talking to himself about conspiracy and the Russian simply looked weary of it all. Aberjeen, whose offer was being ignored, turned to Draco with a look that said, "Handle this…now."

She heard Draco sigh and step forward. "Gentlemen!" His voice somehow drowned out the cacophony. "Gentlemen, please. We can argue over this all evening, but the hour grows late and a decision must be reached. Aberjeen, does your offer of two women at no cost still hold?" Aberjeen nodded vigorously. "Brannon, do you think this is a fair trade?"

Her Master, the man who had protected her for so long, looked at Hermione again. She could see the indecision in his eyes.

"Think of what you've had to give, Brannon." Draco's voice was soft and empathetic. "Of what we've _all_ had to give. Is she worth it?"

Brannon's upright posture seemed to wilt; horror and sadness coursed through Hermione's body. Their eyes remained locked. "I want one woman," he said to Aberjeen quietly, "but she must be of my choosing. I also want the one-hundred galleons I paid for Jean to be returned to me."

"By whom?" scoffed Smithe. "You can't expect the group to pay for your whore!"

Brannon had Smithe pinned against the wall by his collar before Draco could even draw his wand. "It is not you who is being asked to sacrifice, Smithe," Brannon seethed.

"Fifty," Draco countered.

"Seventy-five."

"Sixty. We will split the cost."

Finally, Brannon lowered Smithe to the floor, who straightened his robe and glared at the hulking man. "Agreed."

"It is settled then," Draco said with a smile. "Aberjeen, when can you have some women ready?"

"I will contact my associate as soon as I arrive home. You will hear from me soon, Brannon."

The Master nodded stiffly and now looked anywhere but at Hermione.

"Good. Gentlemen, we are dismissed."

"No!" said Hermione said from the floor. She looked from face to face, hoping to see a glimmer of support but knowing she would find nothing but agitation. She continued anyway. "Not a chance! I'm not leaving. This is my ho…my…" she struggled to find words. What was Brannon Mansion to her? A home? A brothel? A prison? It was all and none at once. "This is my…place…" she finished lamely. A small smirk played on Draco's lips.

Draco chuckled condescendingly. "_Jean_, dear," he said, stooping to the floor. He put his hands on her shoulders and spoke to her as if she was a child. "When are you going to learn that you have no place?" He smiled sarcastically, earning laughs from five of the six remaining men. The double entendre was not lost upon Hermione. She sneered, resisting the urge to slap him, and instead violently shrugged off his hands, coaxing a chuckle out of him and even more laughter from the others.

He stood up and addressed the members, a smile evident on his voice. "Goodbye, gentlemen. I will contact you about the next meeting."

The men filed out of the drawing room to the lobby; Hermione heard several distinct pops as they Apparated away. Hermione remaining unmoving on the floor, paralyzed into a light state of shock. How easily she was passed from one man to the next, and for a cause she knew nothing about. The temptation to break down and cry was strong, but it quickly faded as Draco touched her wrist – the one with the bracelet. He looked down at it momentarily, long fingers gently playing with the charms. Hermione looked at him in his preoccupation: he looked confused, nostalgic…sad.

"Come on, Hermione," he said in a whisper. "We have to get going."

A sad grimace crossed her face. "Am I just a piece of property to you people?"

He could not look at her as he answered. "I'm afraid so." He extended a hand and helped her up off the floor. They stood eye to eye for a moment, then Draco spoke. "We have a lot to do."

He walked out of the study ahead of her and disappeared down the corridor to the foyer. Hermione followed slowly and silently, paying close attention to the surroundings she had called her own for six months, the surroundings she would never see again.

When she reached the foyer, she saw Brannon. He sat on the stairs, head in his hands. He must have sensed her presence because he looked up unexpectedly. Unsure of what to do, Hermione stayed where she was, trying not to look at him but failing miserably.

Brannon had the same problem. After a minute, the tension was unbearable. He rose and walked toward her. His approach made her nervous, and she was shaking by the time he put one hand on her arm.

"Jean…" he whispered, cupping her cheek. "Jean, look at me."

Reluctantly, Hermione did. His eyes were beautiful. Slowly, Brannon lowered his lips to hers, kissing her slowly, sweetly. His fingers entwined in her hair and Hermione felt comfortable. She felt secure and sheltered, and warmth spread through her as she rested her hands upon his broad shoulders. In that moment, Hermione felt like she could have stayed with him. She could have said goodbye to Draco and lived with Brannon, with her Master, with her savior and guardian.

Brannon broke their embrace and rested his forehead against hers, breathing deeply. Hermione's hand alighted on his cheek, and he pressed himself into it. "You remind me so much of my wife, Jean…"

Hermione's breath caught. "What happened to her?"

He smiled sadly, eyes closed against the tears Hermione knew were forming. "I will miss you," he whispered. He kissed her on the forehead one last time and, sooner than Hermione hoped, his touch vanished, leaving her cold and hollow. She watched him as he mounted the stairs and disappeared through a hidden door. He did not look back.

Her temptation to cry was once again halted by Draco's hand on her shoulder. "Come on, Hermione," he said softly. "Let's get out of here."

She looked back wistfully at the staircase and felt a sharp pang of loss. Turning back toward Draco, Hermione met his resolved steel eyes. "Are you ready?"

Hermione nodded. Together, they walked out of Brannon Mansion.

Hermione gasped as the cool air penetrated her thin clothes. She had been bought in March and saw the passage of summer to fall. It had to be mid-September now. As if to prove her right, an eastern wind blew, tangling Hermione's hair and caressing her face, cold but light as a lover's touch.

Draco's hand alighted on her lower back. Hermione shivered. She felt him smile as he steered her toward the end of the drive.

Hermione watched the sky as she walked, guided only by Draco's firm hand. As brilliant as the stars were, they provided almost no illumination in the moonless night. How Draco could see where he was going was a mystery to her, but he seemed confident. By the time they reached the private road, Hermione was truly cold. Her arms crossed in front of her chest and she tried to keep her teeth from chattering as she spoke.

"Where are we going from here?"

"To my house," Draco answered without looking at her. He seemed concentrated on the sky, as if he was expecting something to appear out of the inky blue depth.

"Malfoy Manor?"

"_My_ house," he corrected sharply. "The Manor is my father's; it is part of my inheritance upon his death."

"So where do you live now?"

"Why does it matter?"

"I'm just curious."

"You'll see soon enough."

He resumed searching the skies and focused on one spot for a moment, then shook his head and muttered something to himself. Hermione ignored his odd behavior.

"What happened to Brannon's wife?"

"None of your business."

Hermione huffed. It surely _felt_ like her business.

"Why is this happening?"

"Why is what happening?"

Hermione narrowed her eyes. "Don't be difficult. Why am I being taken from my Master's home? Why am I coming with you? Those men were talking about me surviving somewhere…someone taking me."

"All in due time, Hermione," Draco said wearily. "And he's not your master. Not anymore."

"Oh, that's right," she said sarcastically. "Now you are, is that it? Shall I start calling you _master_, Malfoy?"

He whipped around to face her, eyes blazing, and gripped her arm tightly. "I am not your master, nor is anyone else in this world, but you shall afford me the respect that befits our stations. Are we clear?"

She said nothing, instead raising her chin in defiance and looking out towards the road with an unreadable expression. Draco released her arm, staring back up at the sky. Hermione suddenly remembered that she was quite cold. After a few minutes of uncomfortable silence, she sighed.

"Malfoy, we've been waiting for ages."

"It shouldn't be more than a minute now," he snapped.

"What the devil are we waiting for?"

"You'll see," Draco said shortly. "Now be silent."

Hermione pursed her lips angrily. "Oh yes, let me _afford you the proper amount of respect _then, shall I?" she muttered.

"Excuse me?" Draco said, his voice carrying a stern warning.

She feigned ignorance. "Nothing."

Draco shook his head and looked at the sky again. "Aha," he said quietly. "It's coming."

Hermione regarded him quizzically. "What's coming?"

She could hear the mean-spirited smile on his voice. "Our ride."

Now she looked at the sky in earnest, able to just barely pick out a subtle shade of black against the dark blue. It was moving towards them, and moving fast. As it neared their post, Hermione progressively stopped breathing. Their transportation stopped in front of them.

Hermione's eyes were wide as she looked from the broom to Draco. "You've got to be joking," she said quietly. "This is a joke." Louder now, a subtle hint of hysteria tainting her veneer of calm. "A broom? You can't be serious."

He looked at her with a raised eyebrow. "Quite serious," he assured her. "Now hop on."

"Why can't you take me by Side-Along Apparation?"

"What would we do with the broom then?" Hermione gave him a deadpan look; Draco smirked. "Your magic leaves a trace, as unique as a fingerprint, and the Dark Lord monitors all instances of Apparation. So unless you want to be a blip on his screen, a rather noticeable blip, I might add, you will stop complaining and get on the broom."

"Draco…" Hermione said with a quavering voice. "You know I can't."

"You can and you will. You don't have a choice."

"I won't!" Hermione shouted, hysteria taking over. Her eyes blazed as she stared Draco down.

He sighed in annoyance and ran a hand through his hair. "Hermione, we could do this the easy way or the hard way. Now, you can get on that broom with minimal complaints or I could Imperius you on. And believe me, right now, that is _definitely_ an option."

Hermione believed him, but was reluctant to succumb so easily. "I'm not getting on that broom," she held.

"Get on."

"No."

"Hermione, get on the broom."

"No!"

"_Now!_"

"NO!" Hermione shouted.

"FINE!" Draco shouted right back. "_Imperio_!"

The curse caught her by surprise. Before she could think about fighting it, a sense of happiness replaced her anger and indignation. She seemed to float above the ground and, as if through cotton, heard Draco tell her to get on the broom. Hermione could not think of a reason to refuse. He got on behind her, kicked off the ground and released the spell, but kept his wand pointed at her temple. He spoke before she could regain her composure.

"Hermione, please don't fight," he asked in a tense voice. "It's remarkably difficult to transport a Stupefied woman by broomstick."

By now, Hermione was past anger and even hysteria. She was borderline sobbing. "Draco," she said, voice quivering. "I can't…you know this, I can't…Please, bring the broom down…"

He was obviously sick of her whining. "For Circe's sake, Granger! Don't give me this 'can't' nonsense – you already are! Now just shut up and hold on!"

With no more preempting, he picked up speed and soared into the air, forcing her torso soundly against Draco's. A flashback hit her hard. The Slytherin/Hufflepuff game, the last one of the year. Draco stood in the middle of the field, resplendent in robes of green and silver, broomstick and Snitch in either hand. He kissed her hard, passionately, and she flew with him that night. She remembered the iridescent happiness, the utter exhilaration of the proximity of his body to hers and the rush of the wind in her hair.

It was so unlike the present situation, when she was forcefully placed onto a broom and ruthlessly sped through the air, the cold nipping at her thinly-clothed, not-quite-numb limbs.

Draco accelerated and Hermione's hips slid this time, stopping when they were flush against his. Another flashback, this time bringing color to her cheeks not due to the wind. He was so warm…She unconsciously arched her back into his chest and settled as best she could between his arms. She could not decide whether the instinct was to get warm or simply to be close to him once more, but decided she did not care too much. She shut her eyes against the height and turned so that her hair was not whipping into her eyes. The sooner they landed, the better off she would be.

The rest of the flight was just as brutal as the kick-off. Draco took hard turns, accelerated and stopped suddenly, and dove at stomach-dropping angles. Each time he pulled an antic, Hermione emitted a tiny squeak of fear and discomfort, which she was sure Draco heard. She could feel him smiling; she wanted nothing more than to hit him for being so cruel.

After an interminable flight, he landed the broom with a not-so-gentle thump and swung off the broom with ease. Hermione, stiff and cold from the flight, first eased open her eyes, then her legs, which had been gripping the wooden handle so tightly they had cramped. Draco helped her off and steadied her as she attempted to stand. Once she had successfully achieved said function, she looked around properly for the first time.

Draco lit his wand. "Welcome to the Dragon's Keep," he said with a hint of pride.

Draco's house was not so much a house as a mansion. It was similar to Brannon Mansion in style – looming, dark, and intrinsically unfriendly – and about four stories high with three stone spires jutting into the sky. The stone walls were covered in ivy, the thick wooden door was reinforced with iron, and the windows were small and barred.

It was set high upon a cliff that looked out directly onto the ocean; she could hear the surf crash violently upon the shore. Familiar as Hermione was with the sea, she did not notice the change of air while on the broomstick. But now that she was safe on the ground, it struck her fiercely. For a moment, it reminded her of Azkaban. She fought a strong instinct to flee, forcing herself to observe more carefully. A swift ocean breeze blew inland and she inhaled the saline smell again.

Her lips curved into a small smile: it _didn't_ smell like Azkaban. No matter what season it was, the smell of death always lingered at the remote prison. But here, the air smelled clean and fresh and open. It exhilarated her. Hermione instantly decided that, no matter what happened to her here, she would enjoy it, if only for the freedom its location implied.

"Are you quite finished?" Draco asked. She turned back towards him, noticing the slight upturn of his lips and the humor flashing in his eyes, shining despite the darkness.

Hermione pursed her lips in annoyance. One corner of Draco's mouth twitched, threatening to pull his face into a grin. "Come on," he said, "it's freezing out here."

She gave him a sardonic look. "I hadn't noticed." Draco's cheeks turned a nice shade of pink – she wondered if he had finally mustered up the grace to be embarrassed of his lack of consideration: Hermione had been zooming through the air for at least thirty minutes without so much as a cloak. He cleared his throat and walked towards the house, beckoning her to follow.

The idea of running promptly popped into her head but no sooner had it begun to take root did Draco shout back at her, "Don't even think about it." He glanced over his shoulder and arched a brow. "Do I need to conjure ropes, Granger?"

Hermione lifted her chin and walked toward the mansion with a sort of submissive defiance. She knew she had to listen to him, so at least she would do it on her own terms, and with as much dignity as she could gather.

As she passed through the double-wide, reinforced doors, Hermione's eyes opened wide in wonder: the Dragon's Keep could not be more dissimilar from Brannon Mansion. Where Brannon had elegant tapestries and hand-sculpted busts, Draco had bare walls and a few measly potted plants. Brannon Mansion was elegantly lit, with fine candelabras and huge chandeliers that were constantly lit. Draco's wand was their only light now. The sole similarities that existed, as far as Hermione could tell, were the marble floors (which were black and white) and the bust of Voldemort, situated directly in her line of sight.

Instead of leading her to the dungeons like she expected, Draco walked her up a giant central staircase and up another one, smaller but no less impressive, to her left. With a flick of his wand, a door opened on her right.

"Your room," he said, gesturing her to enter.

It reminded her very much of Hogwarts. A giant bed stood in the middle of the room, across from which there was a vanity complete with a mirror she could not ignore. The walls were a nice cream color and the bedspread was a light green with subtle hints of gold. A dresser, a huge bathroom, and a balcony completed the unit.

Where once she would have felt immediately at home, Hermione felt starkly out of place in the opulence that surrounded her. She had spent two years in a cell, half of one in a dungeon. This room, with huge windows and a balcony that looked over the sea…it was bizarre.

"I hope it's to your liking," Draco said quietly, coming up behind her.

"It's wonderful," she said sincerely. "Thank you."

He made no response, but walked over to the far corner of the room. "Come here."

"Why?" she asked.

"Must you question everything?" he sighed dramatically.

"Yes."

Draco rolled his eyes. "Your room is directly connected to mine through a secret passage in this corner. All you have to do is press your hand on this area here," he gestured to a worn looking patch of paint, "and think of me. You'll be able to slip right through."

Hermione touched the spot lightly with her fingers. "Why did they put this here?"

Draco smirked and his eyes grew mischievous. "For the mistress, of course."

Hermione flushed and her fists balled. Draco must have correctly interpreted this as a warning, for he quickly excused himself and bade her goodnight.

"Wait!" she cried, following him to the door. "You haven't told me what I'm doing here yet!"

"Tomorrow," he said wearily. "I promise, tomorrow. Just get some sleep for now."

"But you said…"

"_Tomorrow_," he emphasized, rubbing his temples. "No more questions. Goodnight."

He closed the door before she could ask again and she glared at the wooden barrier in annoyance, willing it to open back up.

To her great surprise, it did. Draco swung the door inward and popped his head around the corner. "By the way, happy birthday, Hermione." He lingered for a moment, as if on the verge of saying more, but instead shut the door softly. His care was unnecessary: he could have slammed it and Hermione would not have heard.

It was her birthday. It was her birthday and she had completely forgotten. Hermione did the math in her head – she was twenty! Seventeen, when all of this had started, seemed so long ago, like ancient history. With some difficulty, she shrugged off the odd feeling.

After a shower and the pleasant surprise of proper clothes in the bureau, Hermione crawled into bed. She did not realize how thoroughly exhausted she was until her head hit the pillow and her reality disappeared into glorious, dreamless sleep.


	12. Ch 12: A New Order

**A New Order**

The birds were still singing when Hermione opened her eyes to the breaking dawn. That was what woke her, in fact. She had grown so accustomed to sleeping – no, _surviving_ – in darkness that even the softest light disturbed her. She stretched and rose from her new bed, finding a robe and a pair of slippers waiting for her on the vanity chair. She smiled, slipped them on, and stepped out onto the balcony to watch the sunrise.

It was magnificent. Soft pinks and oranges washed away the dark blues and purples of night, and when that fiery yellow star slowly peeked above the horizon of the sea, the light danced across the waves, which lapped gently upon the shore. Hermione shivered. It was as close to magic as she had gotten in two and a half years.

She sat out on the balcony for a while, enjoying the play of the sea breeze in her hair, and slipped into a memory. There was a morning much like this one a century ago when she and Draco were at Hogwarts. Hermione had gotten out of bed early, careful not to wake him, and perched upon the balcony ledge to watch the sun rise over the Forbidden Forest. A slight breeze toyed with her hair, joined soon by Draco's hands.

He woke when she did and had been watching her absorb the morning. When she leaned her head back into the wind, he could no longer resist and pressed against her. He wound his fingers into her hair, intricately weaving her curls around them. Hermione body tingled to the memory of his lips on her neck and the words he spoke so softly into her ear.

She closed her eyes and let herself sink into the breeze once more.

After a few minutes, Hermione heard a distinctive crack of house elf Apparation. She was gripped for a moment with the strange hope that it would be Ziry, but when she turned around, Hermione found that she was not disappointed. In fact, she nearly fell off the ledge.

There was Dobby. He was dressed in a worn pillowcase and stood slightly hunched. The skin around his eyes and mouth were lined with crow's feet and his forehead was beginning to crease. His bulging brown eyes brimmed over with tears and Hermione had never seen a more beautiful face.

In a swift motion, she slid off the balcony and rushed toward the elf, coming down to her knees in front of him and wrapping him in a tight hug.

"Dobby," she breathed, tears filling her eyes. Her chest shook as she struggled not to sob. The elf wrapped his skinny arms around her and patted her gently on the back. After a few moments, he disentangled himself from her and looked up into her red, shining eyes.

"Mistress Hermione," he said, his customary high-pitched voice choked with unshed tears. "Dobby is so glad to see you."

Hermione broke down into tears again. Dobby was such a real reminder of her past, a physical link to the life, the people and the love she once knew. A small part of her did not believe he was even real.

"Dobby…" she said between sniffles, "how did you…? I mean, I'm happy…so happy! But how?"

He simply smiled at her. "Master Draco has been most kind," he said in a conspiratorial hush. "Looks here, Mistress." He moved aside the collar of his pillowcase and Hermione gasped at what she saw.

"A tie, Dobby?" The elf nodded enthusiastically, his bat-like ears flopping around comically. "But that's clothes! Surely it isn't allowed."

"It's not, Mistress. We freed elves has been re-enslaved ever since…" He trailed off and his eyes lost their focus. Hermione's heart contracted. She could not bear to think of what house elves had endured since Voldemort's comeback. "That is why Dobby has stayed out of sight, you see? If he had been seen, Master Draco could have been killed. And so Dobby is the Mistress' personal elf now!"

"My personal elf?" Hermione winced slightly, careful not to offend. Though she was overjoyed to see Dobby, a personal slave was something she never wanted and the ideals which founded S.P.E.W. still mattered to her. But Dobby's toothy smile, excited eyes and enthusiastic nodding made it very nearly impossible for her to refuse.

"Master Draco wants Dobby to make sure you is changed, fed, and comfortable, and then you shall meets him in his study. Just ask for Dobby once you finishes getting ready."

Hermione nodded and stood up, feeling a little dazed. "Thank you, Dobby."

The elf blushed from his nose to his ears, squeaked, "No needs to thank me, Mistress. It is Dobby's pleasure," and disappeared with a loud crack. Hermione could not help but feel that it _was._

After a refreshing shower and the delight of new clothes, Hermione left her room and said Dobby's name like a question, unsure of how exactly to ask for him. She had barely finished speaking when he appeared before her, smiling. He led her down the two staircases, through the foyer, and down a hallway on her left toward what she presumed was the kitchen.

What the mansion's hallways lacked in decoration, the kitchen made up for in opulence. Three huge ovens, two stoves with six burners each, two sinks, and the biggest refrigerator Hermione had ever seen, all in brushed stainless steel, were set against cupboards and pantries of rich, dark wood. Hermione knew they were all probably stocked to bursting. The walls were painted a gentle cream and the red, gold and white swirled counters were undoubtedly granite. A large pair of picture windows facing the sea sat offset of the workspace and housed a table just large enough for two.

When she entered the room, two more house elves stopped their work to bow at her, chorusing, "Hello, Mistress Hermione." After the greeting, the two elves resumed scrubbing the floor. "They works under me, Mistress," Dobby explained with a hint of pride. "What would Mistress like for breakfast?"

Not used to giving orders, she told Dobby to make whatever he liked. He obviously took this as a challenge, for in the twenty following minutes he made two kinds of eggs, three types of meat, potatoes, toast with jam, and fresh orange juice, with a side of sliced melon. Overwhelmed by the abundance but not wanting to seem rude, Hermione ate as much as she could of everything, stuffing herself almost to the point of misery. Dobby, however, seemed very pleased.

He then led her to the study, he gestured her to take a seat on one the massive black leather couches.

"Master Draco will be with you soon," he said. He disappeared with a crack and left her alone. The study was a large room with high ceilings and windows. Like the kitchen, it was well decorated, with a few more personal touches. The wood floor was partially covered by an elaborate Oriental rug of green, black, grey, white, and hints of red. Over them sat long leather couches, which were situated around a large coffee table. A Slytherin banner and a broomstick – Draco's Nimbus 2001 – hung over a hearth opposite her seat. A large bookshelf was situated opposite the door.

Dobby said that Draco was coming soon but after ten minutes of waiting, Hermione started to doubt the elf's sense of timing. With a sigh, she took a turn about the room. She examined the large bookshelf carefully, spotting the "Standard Book of Spells" series and their old Potions and Transfigurations texts. More than one title made her shudder: "Moste Potente Potions" was situated next to "1,000 Outlawed Hexes and Curses." Its sequel, "1,000 More Outlawed Hexes and Curses," sat right next to it. Hermione pulled the book out and read the back cover, which boasted including a new afterword detailing how the caster could make his own spells and contained tips for not getting caught.

As she traveled down the shelf, the titles got worse: "The Imperius Curse Explored," "Alluring Acts: The Secrets of Seduction and Subterfuge," and a particularly haunting book of cracked leather and a barely legible Latin title. As curious as she was, Hermione did not touch this tome. Not only was it stained with something that looked suspiciously like blood, but she had a feeling that if anyone besides Draco were to handle it, something bad would happen.

Ten more minutes passed; Hermione had gone through the entire bookshelf twice. She stared moodily out of the large picture window, stewing over Draco's lateness. He had probably forgotten, the impolite git. Mind determinately set, Hermione yanked open the study doors and came face to face to face with none other than the object of her annoyance, whose hand was positioned over the doorknob. His face was the epitome of puzzlement.

"Going somewhere?" he said, eyebrow arched.

Hermione had no response. "You're late," she accused instead.

"Impossible. I never gave you a time. How can I be late to something that was never scheduled?" He brushed past her and set down the latest Daily Prophet on the center table. He snapped for a house elf, requested a tea tray, picked up the paper, and made himself comfortable on the couch. He flipped through it with infuriating nonchalance. Hermione stood at the door, waiting.

He spoke to her without looking, his eyes perusing the paper. "In or out, Hermione. This place gets quite drafty sometimes."

Again caught without a witty retort, Hermione sneered and shut the door, taking a seat on the couch across from Draco. She folded her arms and stared at him intently and, aside from the soft rustle of the paper, they sat in silence for five minutes.

Finally, Hermione's temper flared. "Out with it!" she demanded, earning another questioning glance from Draco. "You know very well what you promised me last night and you'd better answer my questions until I'm satisfied! Now why am I here?"

Continuing to casually peruse the paper, Draco answered her. "To learn."

Hermione stifled sharp laugher. "To learn?" Her voice dripped with so much skepticism she was afraid the carpet would be stained. "From whom?"

Draco shot her a look. "And all along, they said you were clever…" he muttered, shaking his head and readjusting the paper. "You'll be learning from me, Hermione."

"And what could I learn from you?"

"A great deal, I daresay." He turned a page, grey eyes darting up and down the columns. Apparently, he had found nothing of interest, for he then folded the paper and set it upon the table, finally giving Hermione his full attention.

"Pardon my skepticism," she scoffed.

His gaze, which had been on pleasantly arrogant, turned a tad bitter. "Watch your tone with me, Hermione. Anywhere else, you would be killed faster than your remarks can bite."

She fought the urge to scoff again, opting instead for another question. "I don't have a wand. What good would learning anything do me now?"

"I won't be teaching you magic," he said, rising from his seat on the couch to walk around the room.

"Then what?"

"What you need to survive. I saw how you acted at Brannon Mansion, Hermione. You've been through hell but somehow it hasn't broken you, not like it should have. Instead, it's made you bitter and sarcastic…It's made you colder."

Hermione bristled under the insults. "Do you blame me?" she nearly spat, glaring at Draco.

"No," he ceded. "It's beyond my comprehension how you managed to maintain your _sanity_, much less your wit after what you have experienced. Maybe you'll let me know one day, but I can tell you're not going to divulge such a secret so soon."

"Astute observation," Hermione said pointedly, her facial expression a cross between incredulity and a sneer. Draco continued with the hint of a smile.

"You have a temper, Hermione, and the intelligence to make your remarks bite. A man crueler than Brannon would have killed you thrice over had you unleashed either in his presence. Even after our first meeting, it occurred to me that in order to survive here," he gestured around the room, "in _this_ world, you would need to relearn everything you've ever known. Where you were taught to speak, you must stay silent. Where you were taught honesty, you now must lie. You must hide everything from others: your body, your gestures, your emotions…even your thoughts.

"You don't know who to trust anymore, Hermione, so you trust no one, and the world is now filled with subtleties. The most fleeting look or the slightest arched brow says so much more than five rolls of parchment ever could. Hiding your intentions, whatever they may be, can keep you alive another day if you're good at it, or kill you if you make a mistake. Thus far, I have been lucky. I want you to have that same luck."

Hermione sat back on the couch, processing what Draco told her while one million questions bustled for priority. Yet something still did not make sense. "If I'm living here now, why do I have to worry about hiding my intentions? I'm sure you won't drag me into town with you and if you hold an event, you'll probably just lock me up. You would as soon tell me your secrets as I would tell you mine, so at the end of the day, I'm simply not a liability."

"Correct."

"And yet you still feel these precautions are necessary." Hermione shook her head in confusion. "Why?"

"We live in a world of uncertainty. You are here with me today, sure, but what about tomorrow? The Dark Lord could have me killed in an instant and you could be back up for auction and bought by a less benevolent man. I just want to make sure that, if the occasion arises, you have what it takes to survive."

"But when you were talking with Brannon and those other men, they said I was replaceable."

Draco interjected quickly. "You could never be replaced, Hermione."

The quiet remark and the meaningful look in Draco's eyes threatened to throw off her rant, so she ignored it. "Well, _assuming_ I am, why not just get another woman for whatever job you lot have for me to do?"

"There is no other woman. It has to be you."

She groaned, rubbing her forehead. "Whatever you have planned, I don't want any part in it. Can't you just leave me alone? Haven't you interfered in my life enough?"

"Hermione…"

"Draco, every mistake I've made has been tangled up with you. If I'm really irreplaceable to you, then you would know by now that the best way to ensure my survival is to just leave me alone." Hermione spoke very quietly, but the feeling behind her words was plain: she was in agony and her heart was dashing itself against her thorny words. "Why do you even care?"

That question stung. Draco answered quietly, avoiding eye contact. "Is it really so hard to believe?"

"Do you _really_ blame me?" asked Hermione just as softly. With that, she left Draco alone, and he did not attempt to follow or stop her.

Once she reached her room, she took a seat on her bed and gave into her suffering, letting it expand to include irritation. She shouldn't have been angry because she shouldn't have been surprised. Draco's explanations were nothing but smokescreens and her questions remained answerless. True, if she had kept her tongue in check she probably would have learned a bit more, but being around him was so difficult. It brought back all these emotions and these memories…Things better left abandoned, though she did not have the strength to do it.

She tried to reflect on what little he _had_ told her, but her room – Draco's room, in reality – was stifling. Even the balcony wasn't far enough away from his influence. She needed to go for a walk.

She slipped on a pair of sneakers and grabbed a light jacket before heading out. When she reached the main hall, however, Hermione stopped. She had no idea where she was going. Draco, in his ever-present gentility, had neglected to give her a tour of the mansion. Annoyed, she headed toward the kitchen, deciding they would be a suitable reference point.

Fending off the house elves' queries about her appetite, for she was quite full enough to skip lunch, she chose the hallway to the left. Instinctively taking care to be silent, she tried to note landmarks which would help her navigate the labyrinthine manor. Unfortunately, there was little to go on – an occasional vase or bust of some foreign poet, perhaps a memorable portrait. She thought it strange: in a culture where status, presumably, meant everything, Draco took great care to hide his wealth.

A series of wrong turns led her to a library, a music room, two sitting rooms, and a wonderfully constructed (and conveniently placed) lavatory. When she did finally find a door, Hermione stopped in her tracks.

At Brannon Mansion, the penalties for going outside were very clear. Although she had never attempted an escape, she imagined alarms sounding, solid steel plates slamming down to barricade the windows and doors, and a severe punishment.

But at the Dragon's Keep, she knew of no such consequences. Along with forgoing the tour, Draco had neglected to tell her the protocols she was supposed to follow. It left her in a peculiar situation. Did she play it safe and stay indoors, or did she venture outside and possibly incur Draco's wrath?

She scoffed. It was an easy choice.

The outside of the Dragon's Keep was even more stunning in full light. The walls were high and made of dark, imposing stone. Ivy crawled up the south side, almost completely overtaking the structure on that end alone; she could barely see the windows through the thick, green vines. Hermione recognized her sea-side balcony from the ground. It was located right next to one of three turrets that rose into the sky. She could only assume the one next to her own was Draco's. What the other two held was a mystery, but she noted their positions, intent on exploring them later.

She sat on the cliff overlooking the sea for some time, forgetting about the questions she had and instead relishing the adrenaline rush she got when she looked down. There was a sheer vertical drop into the ocean, one that looked all too unpleasant due to the cluster of sharp-looking rocks awaiting the fallen. Hermione wondered for a while if there was a beach nearby or any way to get to the shore. The thought of her feet in the surf made her tingle pleasantly, despite the brisk weather.

After searching in vain for a way down the cliff, Hermione resigned herself to exploring the rest of the property, which was not so much a chore as it was a delight. On one side of the mansion was sea. On another, an open field: the entrance to the Keep. The last two were bordered by a thick, dark forest.

The world seemed to slow as she stood before it. The trees loomed above her, thick and forbidding. She could barely see where their canopies stopped and the sky began. It reminded Hermione very strongly of the Forbidden Forest at Hogwarts, but it was quite different in two respects. The first was that there were no signs of life – no birds, no insects, no rustling of larger creatures. The forest was plunged into an off-putting and eerie silence.

And while she was never tempted to enter the Forbidden Forest, she felt a strange pull to this one. Hermione knew that the forest was probably dangerous and knew that she should not enter it, but an intense, macabre curiosity tugged her feet closer. The wind picked up from behind her and blew into the forest, as if trying to help her along. She lost hold of rational thought and followed her instinct.

As she stepped closer, the wind blew harder, whispering through beckoning branches of things unknown. The tree trunks parted, forming a path that seemed to be lit from the forest itself. Her eyes were focused straight ahead and she continued, trancelike, into the wood. She was about to cross the barrier, she was so close. Just then, a hand gripped her arm like a vice. "You don't want to go in there."

Hermione screamed. The wind stopped abruptly and the spell was broken. She whipped around and found that the owner of hand and voice was Draco. He looked none too pleased and his shaggy blond hair was considerably mussed. "Come on. You've had enough fun out here for one day."

Realization of what had almost happened slowly spread through Hermione's body. She barely managed to keep the tremor out of her voice. "How would you know?"

Draco spared her a sideways glance. "I know everything that happens in my house, Hermione. _Everything_."

Hermione rolled her eyes at his self-important tone. "Why shouldn't I go into the forest?"

He looked at her like she had grown a third arm. "For the same reason you shouldn't go into _any_ forest. It's dangerous. I've got quite a colony of Acromantulas back there and these woods are the last remaining centaur habitat, until the Dark Lord finds out about them, at least."

She looked at him quizzically. "You haven't told him?"

He laughed sharply. "And have a herd of murderous half-breeds outside my doors? No, thank you."

Hermione rolled her eyes again at Draco's glibness but otherwise walked peaceably with him to the Keep. He kept tight hold of her arm, but that did not keep her from looking back. The forest was completely still again, but Hermione still felt that tug toward it. She would have to explore it more thoroughly another time…a time when Draco was not home.

After a short silence, Draco spoke. "Have you thought about what I said?"

"Yes," Hermione lied. She had been too distracted by the sea and the forest to linger on their conversation, but she recalled it readily. "I still don't understand why I'm so important."

She thought she heard him sigh. "I didn't expect you to, but you need to make a decision."

"I have a choice?"

"Well, no. You can be willing or unwilling, but you're going to learn no matter what. It would just be nice to know whether this is going to be easy."

Afraid of becoming redundant, Hermione refrained from rolling her eyes for the third time in five minutes.

"So?" he asked her after another short silence. "What will it be?"

Hermione, whose head was throbbing and stomach was rumbling, dodged the question. "Draco, I'm not thinking straight right now. Can we talk about this after dinner? Please?"

He shot her a considering look and then nodded. "After dinner," he repeated, as if the notion was completely foreign. "Of course."

A thought popped into Hermione's head and she regarded Draco carefully. Dinner sounded strange on his lips, his body was thin, and his face was haggard and pale. How often did he eat?

"What _is_ for dinner tonight?" she asked.

Another sidelong glance. "Whatever you tell Dobby to cook you," he answered carefully.

"You don't cook?"

"That's servant work, Granger," he said sternly, as if it was an insult to hint that he had ever touched a skillet. They had reached the mansion and were about to enter when he stopped and turned to her. "Listen, I have work to do today, so don't bother trying to find me. Meet me in the study at eight – have your decision made and be prepared for your first lesson."

"What will it be?"

He hesitated for a moment and, with a pained expression, answered, "History."

With that, he opened the door and disappeared into the maze of passageways that he called home, leaving Hermione at the door with no clue of how to find her way back to…anything, really. She glared into the darkness and muttered angrily about his lack of manners before going into the house herself.

In the interest of her education, Hermione took to exploring without a guide once more. After considerably fewer wrong turns than before, she reached the kitchens. Dobby, mercifully, was waiting for her with a tall glass of cold water and a potion to relieve her headache.

"What would Mistress like for dinner?" Dobby asked. Hermione smiled. Lesson learned from breakfast, she responded very specifically, making sure that Dobby did not prepare one more bite than she could eat.


	13. Ch 13: A Lesson Lived

**A Lesson Lived**

Hermione finished her dinner of baked chicken, broccoli, and redskin potatoes two hours before her rendezvous with Draco. She was tempted to venture outside again, but remembered Draco's warning: he knew what she did whenever she did it. Assuming he was being truthful, perhaps he would think she was going to the forest again and bar her indoors. However unlikely, she did not feel comfortable with the risk.

The alternative, and not at all a disappointing one, was to explore indoors. First, she retraced her steps to the library, the conservatory, the sitting room, the bathroom, and the door she found earlier. Pleased that she could find all with minimal difficulty, Hermione recalled the mansion's spires. Finding out what the other two spires held not only gave her a purpose until eight o'clock, but also gave her the perfect opportunity to snoop. What was Draco doing until then? Was it something in the Keep?

The second floor was daunting. She counted seven fully-furnished and decorated bedrooms, each with its own bathroom, as well as three separate bathrooms. Three sitting rooms, two studies, two empty storage rooms, one room completely filled with bureaus, and two broom cupboards, one of which was inside the other, rounded out the room total.

The third floor was not as heavily chambered, but seemed to hide the spire entrances. The first spire – next to her bedroom – was, she assumed, where Draco slept. The second spire, which she could smell before she could see, was an owlery. How many owls Draco had taken to housing was uncertain but as Hermione was not too keen on stepping through their droppings, she chose to skip the visual.

Her search for the third spire entrance was fruitless, but she did find two more bedrooms, one bathroom, and another broom cupboard. Then, she found her favorite part of the Keep. It was a tapestry of Hogwarts, and it was huge. She sat down before it and stared.

Spanning almost an entire wall, the hanging showed the castle from an entirely different angle each time she looked at it. At first glance, she relived her first year, when she and her classmates journeyed across the lake and saw Hogwarts for the first time. It loomed against the darkening sky, a huge fortress with pinprick yellow lights. At the time, she did not know that the best and worst moments of her life would take place within those walls. The excitement of a new experience, tinged lightly with anxiety, bubbled within her.

As memory after memory drifted across her mind's eye, ignored tears streamed down her cheeks. The tapestry showed Hogwarts covered in a blanket of shimmering white snow, the Forbidden Forest in the fall, the lake – complete with ripples from the giant squid – during the spring. The Whomping Willow, Hagrid's hut, the Quidditch Pitch…It was all there, so tangible, weaving itself into Hermione's memories, and making her heart ache with longing.

Somewhere, a clock began to chime. It was eight o'clock. Though she was reluctant to leave, she did not want to be late. She wiped her eyes and made her way through the Keep, only taking two wrong turns. The clock had barely sounded its seventh chime when Hermione saw the study door. On the eighth, she was waiting on the couch. Draco appeared less than a minute later.

"Have you made a decision?"

"I have. But first, tell me what you want me to do. The Ma- I mean, Brannon, was worried for my survival and he said he didn't think I would submit...What was he talking about?"

Draco looked for a moment as if he had swallowed a lemon, but he regained his composure so quickly that Hermione thought she might have imagined it. "He was worried for you," he answered evenly. "He knew you were safe with him."

"And with you?"

"There are rough patches in my history which throw my credibility into doubt, even though my story is widely known. I don't think Brannon trusts me completely."

"And I should?" she sneered, having experienced many of these rough patches first-hand.

Draco met her gaze unflinchingly. "I would like you to."

They both were silent for a moment.

"So will you let me teach you?"

Hermione nodded. "I might as well make this easy on us both."

"Just what I wanted to hear. The only thing you need to know is this: as of right now, I know everything and you know nothing. You must listen to everything I say, no matter how ludicrous, without complaint or question. I don't know how much time we have, so the less arguing I hear about it, the better off we both will be. Understand?"

Hermione bristled beneath his authoritative tone, but agreed nevertheless.

Draco nodded, walked to a corner of the room to a large cabinet and opened it, pulling out a rather ugly Pensieve. He brought it to the table carefully and sat beside her. It was shallow and made of roughly-hewn grey stone. A few runes were carved into its rim but she could only recall the simplest meanings: protection, justice, clarity.

"Why a Pensieve?" she asked, looking from the stone bowl to his stone eyes. "Couldn't you just tell me?"

"I suppose I could," he replied quietly, "and maybe that would be easier for us both to bear. But in many cases, there are no words to describe what I've seen. My memories say more than I can."

"Oh." She looked at the basin once more. Draco's tone and troubled look made the Pensieve seem very foreboding. She was sorely tempted to renege on her agreement to learn willingly.

He knelt before the bowl and gestured for Hermione to join him. "There are three memories you need to see," Draco continued. "I'll guide you through them." He held out his hand for her, and she took it, ashamed that she was shaking. She felt his sidelong glance. "Are you ready?" He sounded nervous too.

Hermione nodded without looking at him and Draco leaned forward into the shimmering silver mist. The contents swirled and with a forceful pull, she tumbled through nothingness behind him.

She landed on an unfamiliar street. It was light – midmorning, if she had to guess – and modest houses lined either side. An old woman puttered around in her garden, a young man with a music player walked a rather large hound, two children played with chalk. Colors stood out fantastically: the pinks and blues of the chalk were sharp and vivid, and the bright yellow of the old woman's spade and strange rubber shoes was nearly blinding.

It was an incredibly ordinary morning until several pops occurred behind her. Hermione's heart jumped in her chest as she turned around: Apparation on a Muggle street? What were they thinking?

The residents could not very well ignore the simultaneous appearance of five black-cloaked figures, whose faces were covered in skull-like masks. The old woman in her garden dropped the trowel and her eyes widened in terror. The man continued to walk his dog, trying not to stare at the strange men, and the children looked on in innocent curiosity.

Although nearly indistinguishable from the other men, Hermione recognized Draco's eyes underneath his mask. The other Death Eaters looked at him and he gave a short, jerky nod. Four men simultaneously raised their wands.

A chorus of the Killing Curse; all four Muggles fell dead on the spot. A high-pitched scream. The mother, who had turned to see what kind of mischief her now-deceased children were getting into, burst out of her front door. A jet of green light. She was dead before she could reach them.

"You know what to do," memory-Draco said calmly. Silently, the Death Eaters went to work. They blasted down the doors and ignored the screams for the short time they sounded. It was a methodical slaughter. One Death Eater per house, as many jets of light as there were people, no prisoners allowed, set the house aflame. Hermione followed in horror, unable to tear her eyes away. When a woman's shrill scream broke through the roar of the fire, she jerked away from Draco and retched her dinner onto the decimated street, heaving until there was nothing left but acid.

"When did this happen?" she croaked.

Draco hauled her back to her feet. "Three days after Potter's fall. The Dark Lord needed time to organize, then the raids started." The sky had turned dark with the smoke of burning houses. Hermione nearly choked on the acrid smell of sizzling hair and cooking human flesh. There was no blood. "We went through whole towns, just like this. Street by street. Teams of us."

"Teams?" Hermione mumbled weakly, watching as the memory-Draco cast the Dark Mark into the sky.

"The Dark Lord has his ways. The Imperius, blackmail, kidnapping…Many others joined on their own. They had to. Self-preservation," he said, as if the word was a curse.

Unable to watch any more, Hermione turned to Draco. His stare was fierce, intense, and hers was full of hatred. "I can't believe you," she hissed.

Draco turned his granite expression to her, his grey eyes suddenly unfamiliar. "What can't you believe?" he snarled quietly. "Look at what I'm doing." He gestured toward memory-Draco, who stood by with his wand outstretched, setting a house ablaze. "Look at what I've done."

"And why, Draco?" she yelled. "To what end? You wanted this – this death? This burning? And don't come at me with that blood purity shite. You're too smart for that, I know you are!"

He sneered. "We were together for less than a year, Granger. It's safe to say you don't know me at all."

She gasped and her hand flew from her side, striking Draco across the face. Her eyes glittered with malice. "I suppose I don't," she spat.

Though one cheek was pink with the outline of her palm, Draco's expression was at once stony and pathetic. Without a word, he grabbed her wrist, and they sped off through his memories.

They landed on another Muggle street, but it had already been destroyed. The houses were once modest ranches, with red brick facades, perfectly manicured lawns, and shiny cars. Now they lay in ruins, most smoldering, a couple still burning brightly. The early evening sky was clouded with thick, grey smoke, obscuring what would have been a beautifully moonlit night.

"The United States," Draco said. "Or, what's left of them."

Out of the haze, she saw five men gathered around a large pile in the middle of the street. It was burning brightly and smelled horrifyingly familiar. Her stomach churned, but she walked forward: there was movement up ahead.

Once abreast of the Death Eaters, she saw Muggles, faces blackened with ash and smudged with tears, bound by thick shackles, watching their families burn. They were mostly young women and would have been pretty had unadulterated heartache not distorted their faces. With a pitiful wail, one fell to the ground and sobbed breathlessly, clutching her chest and covering her eyes.

There were only a few men in the group. They were tall and muscular, and probably could have fought the Death Eaters had their spirits not been crushed by the murders they had been forced to witness.

Suddenly, memory-Draco spoke. "They've seen enough." Each Death Eater took a length of chain in his hands and turned sharply on the spot. The poor Muggles were then subjected to the not-at-all pleasant sensation of Side-Along Apparation.

Hermione and Draco disappeared with the rest and landed in front of a large, ramshackle warehouse. After a brief headcount, memory-Draco ordered everyone in. Still trying to recover from their first Apparation, most of the Muggles did not move. This changed quickly when some of the Death Eaters brandished their wands, showering them with red sparks.

Hermione followed, but nearly left immediately. The stench was overwhelming. It was burning and sewage and sweat and the musk of hundreds of frightened people being held in a small area. There was something off about the warehouse, though; some aspect of the windowless space, filled with broken machines, gigantic vats, and useless conveyor belts, which was not quite right. She swallowed her gorge.

"One of our many storage facilities," Draco said, as if answering her thoughts. "It used to be a slaughterhouse." He gestured to the ceiling: ten-inch long curved hooks swayed above their heads, glinting in what little light there was. Hermione nearly keeled over in a faint.

"This is terrible…" she said quietly.

"Keep watching."

Despite her better judgment, she did. She soon wished she had not.

One by one, the Muggles were marched up a crudely-fashioned wooden stage. And, one by one, they were judged to the most ruthless standards the wizards in the audience could think of. She's too skinny, put her in the kitchen; she's too fat, put her on housework; he looks idiotic, grunt work; lovely breasts – she's a whore.

They were sorted into, there was no better word to describe it, _crates_, each labeled with the proper occupation. Then men, who must have been the wizarding elite, strode in through a door on the side and passed each one of the stations. Their scribes trailed behind them, fingers ink-stained and quill constantly scratching the paper, taking notes on which servant his master favored and which whore he found most appealing. The wizard had to do no more than point to seal a Muggle's fate.

"Last one," he said. With another whoosh, they were away, this time landing in a dark but vaguely familiar forest. It was the middle of the night and what should have been a forest teeming with sounds was silent, save for an unnatural, uneven tattoo that seemed to resonate from the ground itself. A flickering light shone from between the trees just a few yards ahead.

Hermione's heart stilled. She did not want to see what was up there. Worse, she felt like she already knew. Her feet moved forward like they were not her own, like she was a doll controlled by an invisible puppeteer, moving her up to some twisted stage, where the audience waited and the applause was strained grunts and muffled thuds.

The trees thinned into a clearing and in this clearing was a massive pit. Around the pit were Death Eaters – Voldemort's finest, all unmasked. The Dark Lord himself stood in the center, Draco and his father to his right, Bellatrix Lestrange and Channing Orman to his left. Each held a wand aloft for light. Voldemort looked down into the trench, a sort of smile twisting and contorting his serpentine face. His snake-like red eyes glowed.

Two men walked across her line of vision. Between them was a body. On the count of three, they swung it into the pit and as the mass descended into the hole, Hermione saw a flash of brilliant red hair.

"No…" she whispered, her stomach dropping. Her head spun and ached, and she could feel something within it start to crumble. A second body was hurled into the pit, again with shocking red hair. "No," she said more forcefully.

A third was about to be tossed in when Voldemort said, "Wait." His pale fingers spread wide, he levitated the body from the arms of the two men, allowing it to hover over the ditch. It turned in lazy circles, a panorama for the onlookers. Voldemort smiled wider. "Goodbye, Potter."

Closing his hand, Harry's limp body fell through the air and landed with a great thud on the other piled corpses.

She could take no more. "No! No!" She ran toward him and came to a halt when she reached the edge of the pit. They were there. All of them. Luna. McGonagall, Flitwick, Lupin. Moody, Hagrid. The Weasley family. Ginny. Ron. Harry. The memories she had forced to the back of her mind broke loose of their confines, assaulting her mind with hard-edged emotion. She dropped to her knees in shock.

"What about the Muggles?" asked one of the men.

"In with the others."

Two more bodies landed on top of Harry's, and Hermione's world shattered.

They were her parents.

"No!" she screamed. "No!" She lunged into the pit, needing to feel them, needing to be with them, but a strong pair of hands wrapped around her waist and she was hefted away from the grave, away from her friends, her family…

"Let me go, let me go," she begged him, still struggling towards the pit. "Please, let me go. I need to be with them…my family, Draco, my _parents_! Please! Please!"

"There's nothing you can do for them, Hermione," Draco said, gripping her arms tighter and pulling her back. "They're dead! They're gone!"

"NO!" she yelled and tore away from him. She was about to leap for them when suddenly the pit was engulfed in flames. The conflagration reached high into the sky, singeing the treetops. Voldemort looked to the heavens triumphantly and raised his wand, casting the Dark Mark with a spell that was no more than a hiss.

Deterred for but a moment, Hermione continued toward the fire, eyes streaming tears. She wanted to join the inferno. She wanted to be with them. Draco was quicker and collided with her again. He held her at arm's length, his eyes shining brightly, the holocaust blazing behind them. He spoke softly but fiercely. "It's over, Hermione. They're gone."

Hermione looked up at him blankly for a moment until his words sunk in._ It's over…they're gone…_ Her knees buckled and she sobbed with everything she had, her body contorting with grief. Draco fell with her and held her tightly, his fingers digging into her flesh. The memory disappeared around them and they were back in Draco's study.

She untangled herself from him immediately, hating to feel his blood-stained hands upon her body, and leapt to her feet. "Why did you show me that?" she snarled. Her voice was fierce and thick with grief, which was echoed in Draco's eyes.

"You needed to see it," he said softly.

"No! No I didn't!" She shoved him backwards with both hands, eyes filled with pain. "Everyone I loved, everyone that mattered to me, is d-" She hiccoughed on the word, but it wrenched from her throat, "Dead."

With the utterance of that word, everything changed. Her heart had been filled with the unacknowledged certainty that, after all that had happened, her parents, at least, were still alive. But those spaces emptied and collapsed, bringing her heart down upon itself. Laughter and love they could no longer share. A future she could no longer imagine.

And it was her fault.

Her head spun and she could no longer process thought. She was a creature, operating on instinct, which now was to flee the threat. Her lungs burned and she could no longer inhale and her eyes stung with the volume and force of her tears, but she staggered out of the study with surprising speed, unable to hear Draco calling her name. Her legs, which were unsteady at best, gave out when she reached the stairs. Her knees cracked on the unforgiving stone floor, but she bit back her cry, knowing that if she screamed, she would not be able to stop.

She may have walked or she may have crawled; she did not know and it did not matter. All that mattered was her destination.

The tapestry.

It hung above her, warm and beckoning, and took her inside the castle. Through the gated entrance, into the Great Hall, up the many flights of stairs to the Gryffindor Common Room, where plush chairs and a warm fire were ready and welcoming. Through the stone halls to the Charms classroom – full of laughter; to the Potions dungeon – cold and dreary; to the Astronomy tower – somber with death. Into the Chamber of Secrets. Into the Room of Requirement. Into the maze of secret passageways. Into the Head's shared dormitory. Into the room she shared with Draco.

Beaten with long-repressed memories and weakened with sorrow, Hermione collapsed. A pair of strong arms caught her before she hit the floor and blessed exhaustion took her away.


	14. Ch 14: The Training Begins

**The Training Begins**

_Hermione stood in the middle of a war-torn street, but she was not alone. Fire-consumed Muggles swarmed around her, their charred fingers clutching at her hair and clothes. They were nameless and faceless, but she could feel their hatred. She wanted to help them, but they kept tearing at her, ripping her apart, consuming her flesh as theirs had been consumed…_

There was support beneath her body and head. Soft. Supple. Uncomfortably warm.

_She was in Azkaban, tossed out onto the stage before a sea of masked men, whose words stole her dignity. Unforgiving hands threw her into a cage and she was lost in a mass of young flesh. Their sweat and fear thickened the air and she gasped for breath, reaching out, looking for something to save her from drowning in it..._

Her arms and legs were tangled. She was trapped, suffocating. Her limbs thrashed. She must survive.

_She lay with the bodies of her loved ones, caressed by their cold and still flesh. She spoke to them, begged for forgiveness, but they ignored her. She would give up her life – the only thing she had that was worth something – if they would just look at her. After what felt like an eternity, her mother's dead eyes, white and lidless, met her stare. _We don't want your life, _she said. _We want_ our _lives. Our lives, Hermione, which you stole from us_…_

Hermione woke herself with a scream-like sob, and her body jerked itself upward. No sooner had she screamed than did the door burst open, nearly flying off its hinges; it was Draco. He whispered her name like a curse and rushed over to her, enveloping her in his arms. She did not notice that she was in her bed or that the blankets were pooled at her feet. She did not care that Draco held her too tightly and that he was the last person on earth she wanted to see, but the only one she could. She could not do anything but be overwhelmed by grief and guilt. She buried her face in her hands and cried.

"Hermione," Draco said quietly. "Hermione, look at me." He pushed her hands aside and lifted her chin, forcing himself upon her. His eyes were soft and compassionate, his mouth was set in a grim line, and his forehead creased with worry. Her head reeled. How could he still care? How could he still feel anything but pain?

"Breathe, Hermione, just breathe." She tried to mimic his pace, but her lungs would not cooperate, instead gasping and choking on the air. "Have some water, go on." He summoned a glass and brought it to her lips, but her body shook so that most of it spilled down her front. He gave up and gathered her close once more, stroking her hair, whispering nothings and wiping her tears away with his fingers.

His touch brought with it a violent, white-hot flare of loathing, which burned her skin and boiled her blood. Hermione hated him more than she hated anyone, more than she hated herself, but she had to pity him. She was forced into it. Draco had had a flair for cruelty at Hogwarts, but what she saw in his memories wasn't cruelty; it was sickness. For all that he was, Draco was not a sick man. What he had witnessed, what he had _done_, must have hurt him. The next thought nearly made her retch: what if the hurt had ripped apart his soul?

The question was past her lips before she could think about restraining it. "Do you… regret… any of it? Draco?" She could hardly understand herself through the sobs. "Do… Do you feel…?"

She dissolved into tears again and clung to him, but he felt tense and uncomfortable beneath her now. "Hermione," he said, "I didn't want to show you…"

And just like that, a switch flicked in her brain. It turned off her tears and shut down her heart. It quenched the small fire of hope that had somehow survived the dousing of the night prior. That was her answer. That was all she needed. She pushed him away. "Please leave," she asked.

He ignored her. "But you needed to know what the Dark Lord has done. Without it, you never could have…"

"I don't want to hear your excuses," she said evenly and quietly. "You have hurt me more than anything or anyone ever could, and I can't ever forgive you for it. I have to live with myself while everyone I love is dead. I'm alone and I…" She paused and took a deep breath, steeling herself for what she had to say next. "I just want to forget."

Hermione could not look at him and, if there was a mirror before her, did not think she could look at herself. To forget her past would disgrace the memories of her friends. To ignore their sacrifice: a cruel post-mortem insult. But what else was there for her? Keeping them alive in her heart and mind stabbed at the raw wounds on her soul. Eventually, she knew, it would kill her.

But how could she possibly forget?

"I'm sorry, Hermione," Draco whispered. He placed a vial of purple potion into her hands: Dreamless Sleep. Without needing to be told, Hermione uncorked and drained it in a single gulp. She laid down, her eyes and limbs already feeling heavy, and could not protest as Draco pulled the blankets up around her. With only the vaguest of senses, she felt him smooth her hair and caress her face. Slowly, her world faded from sight.

Hermione woke up late the next morning, so late that it was almost noon. She sat up in bed and just stared, looking at everything like she had never seen it before. There was the dresser, which was so unlike the one she'd had at home, the one that she and her mother had picked out together when she was ten. There was her balcony that overlooked the sea, which her father would have loved to take his morning tea upon while reading the paper. And there was Dobby – she barely noticed the noise of his appearance – who was so loyal to Harry and Ron, and still was to Hermione.

"Master Draco wanted Dobby to check on the Mistress. Master says Mistress may be unwell." Dobby wrung his hands anxiously. Seeing him broke Hermione's heart as much as it made her smile.

"Can I ask a favor of you, Dobby? One that Draco can't overturn?"

"Yes, Mistress. Just tell Dobby what to do."

Hermione nodded and took a deep breath, making sure to speak slowly, clearly and plainly as possible. "Please do not visit me unless I call for you. Do not come looking for me, do not monitor me, do not fret about my health or well-being. If Draco asks, only tell him that I'm fine," she lied, "and that I need time to be alone. Can you do this for me?"

Dobby nodded, his bat-like ears flapping about his head. "Yes, Mistress, Dobby will tell Master Draco what Mistress wishes."

"Thank you," she said, and Dobby disappeared.

She lay back down and stared at the ceiling. How could she put her life back together again? Where did she even begin? How could she forget everything she had ever known? Or, if she couldn't forget it, how could she ignore it? She stayed in bed the whole day, only rising to use the bathroom and drink a little water. She ate nothing. Soon it was nighttime, and she found that the vial of Dreamless Sleep had refilled itself. Hermione drank it all.

The next day passed in a similar manner, but on the balcony. The temperature was cold and a stiff wind blew in from the ocean, but Hermione hardly felt it. Her senses felt dull and slowed and her body numb, though she was unsure whether to blame the potion or the Pensieve. Maybe it was a mixture of both.

As the sun set, Hermione heaved a sigh. She had never been one to wallow and knew that she must get on with her life, but there came the impossible question again: _how_? Every thought she had was of her family and friends. Even when she tried to repress them, she would glance in a mirror and the memories would rush out like a torrent of water, flooding her mind, drowning her with longing.

The next day, she ventured out of her room for food. She visited the kitchen and requested a sandwich – she didn't care what kind – which she took outside. It was cold and blustery, but she wore no coat, her skin still unfeeling, as if she were already a corpse.

_Already a corpse. _The thought reverberated in her mind. Hermione's feet moved on their own and led her to the bluff overlooking the sea. She remembered the large group of sharp boulders waiting in the water below and the interminable fall before reaching those stones. The wind gusted and tore reflexive tears from her eyes. Suddenly, Hermione wanted to fly. Her hand dropped the uneaten sandwich. It landed silently on the grass at her feet.

Maybe there was no forgetting. Maybe there was no way to ease her pain. The grief ripped apart her heart and soul, consuming her. She felt like she would never smile again. She had lost everything and she had done it to herself. She had robbed herself – and the world – of good people, wise and wonderful people, people who were much better and nobler than she could ever hope to be now. She could not live any longer, could not even bear the _idea_ of living.

Her foot stepped nearer to the edge of the bluff. What a simple way for it all to end. So easy to send herself over the boundary and into oblivion. Elegant. Clean. She leaned forward and looked down. The deep blue of the surf crashed upon the steep crags of the cliff and crested white against the stones. Never had anything looked so inviting and so forbidding.

As her brain urged her to take another step, to leap, even, and surrender herself to her pain, a miniscule portion of her heart rebelled against it. Surrender was not part of her nature. Defeat was not part of her vocabulary. And yet, here she was with nothing but air and water below the toes of her trainers.

Did she want to do this?

Yes, her brain answered. Death had to be better than feeling the pain of life.

Was she willing to do this?

No, her heart cried. This was wrong. This was weak. This could not be abided.

A tear of sorrow – the first she had shed in two days – rolled down her cheek. She took a deep breath and closed her eyes. Her feet moved but she was not able to discern their direction, and then she was struck from the side and falling, falling, until she landed upon the grass, pinioned by Draco's body.

He clasped her tightly and rolled her away from the edge. She did not struggle away or fight him, only let herself be moved. Once he was satisfied with their distance from the edge, he hoisted himself above her so that he was able to look into her eyes. She did not know what he would see, but his were filled with raw fear. For a long time, they were silent.

When Draco spoke, it was in a low voice that barely contained his grief. "Is it really so bad, Hermione?" he whispered to her. "Is it?"

She rose up onto her elbows and he backed away, allowing her to sit. "It is," she whispered hoarsely. "What I've done…" She cleared her throat. "What _we've_ done… Draco, I feel hollow. I feel exhausted. I've betrayed my friends and my family. I'm responsible for subjugating an entire people to slavery. _My_ people," she keened. She threaded her hands through her hair and held her head, suddenly aware of the cold, and shivering because of it.

"I'm disgusted with what I've done. I'm disgusted with who I am. I'm full of resentment and bitterness and hatred and regret." She spoke quietly and calmly, like she was stating facts she found in a textbook. "I want to go back and change it all, to make a difference set of choices, to walk a different path and live a life that is whole and happy. But I can't, and living with myself fractures me a little more each day. One day, I know I'll break and I…" She paused, gathering her strength. "I don't know if I'll be able to pick up the pieces."

Draco gathered her to him, warming her with his arms. "I'll pick them up for you," he whispered.

And with that, Hermione broke. She sobbed unashamedly into his shoulder and he held her tightly, not shushing or consoling, but just being, grieving with her in his own way, or so she wanted to think. He was silent and still, a pillar for her to lean upon, supporting her until she was able to stand again. She loved and hated him for it.

When she was able to breathe, they walked to the Keep together. He dropped her off in the kitchens and instructed the elves to make sure she ate. As they busied themselves, he sat her down at a small table. "I don't want to do this to you, Hermione, but you gave me your word that you would learn from me. What I have to teach you is too important to put off any longer. Tomorrow will be your first lesson. Please be in the dining room at eight a.m."

Hermione nodded in understanding. Life must move on.

"Thank you," he said and leaned over to kiss the top of her head. He disappeared just as a bowl of creamy soup and a thick slice of warm bread were set before her. She ate slowly, steeling her resolve with each bite. Little by little, it strengthened. There would never be a salve to heal what she had done to herself. It would always be a gaping wound, and it would eat at her slowly until there was nothing left but a walking corpse. That was the way of things and the nature of the wound. But time, perhaps, could slow its progress and maybe she could survive one more day, one more week, one more month…

She woke early the next day and requested a cup of hot chocolate from Dobby, who she told could ignore the request she made a few days ago. She had to start living her life normally, and part of that normalcy involved interacting with the elf who anchored her to her friends. Hermione showered, put on fresh clothes and arrived in the dining room precisely on time. Draco was already seated at the table.

"How are you feeling?" he asked her.

Hermione shrugged and tried to keep the sadness out of her voice. "As well as can be expected, I suppose."

Draco nodded. "You're ready to move on?" It was more of a statement than a question.

"I want to," she corrected.

Draco nodded again. "Well, you can start by cooking us breakfast. I would like one piece of toast, two strips of bacon, two eggs, and a glass of fresh orange juice. The toast should be wheat and cut diagonally. Don't overcook the bacon and if you break a yolk, you're starting over. Make yourself whatever you want, but make sure it comes out hot and at the same time as mine."

Hermione balked. Was this her first lesson? _Cooking_? From what she had seen in the Pensieve, she thought it was going to be a lecture on codes of conduct or the current governmental system. But _cooking_? It nearly sent her over the edge. Draco opened his paper and, after a moment, looked up at her, eyebrows raised. "You have a question?"

She had a great deal more than a question, but could not seem to do anything more than stand with her arms akimbo and glare. Draco's arched brow and the dismissive way he rustled his paper brought her volatile mood closer to its flashpoint. He must have seen the irritation on her face because he cut her off before she could say a word.

"No matter how ludicrous, Hermione. That's what you promised: you would do whatever I asked, no matter how absurd, without complaint or question." Hermione scowled, thinking that it was a damn good thing she wasn't yet wielding a frying pan. Yes, she had promised, but she expected to learn something useful. Draco read her expression and gave her a pointed look, as if daring her to defy him.

She collected her anger. It took all of her willpower to ask through clenched teeth, "How would you like your eggs?"

Draco smiled and sat back in his chair. "Poached, please."

She turned and entered the kitchen, which was devoid of the usual two house elves. With them, it had looked so inviting and simple. Now, it was a haystack hiding needles. Hermione sighed; if Draco was lucky, he would get breakfast by noon. Then, an idea struck. Maybe there was a way to do this more efficiently. Maybe…

"Dobby?" she whispered. The elf's sharp crack of Apparation made Hermione wince. She glanced over her shoulder to the dining room. Draco looked nonplussed.

"Yes, Mistress?"

"Dobby, Draco wants me to cook and I don't-"

"You are not allowed help, Granger," Draco ordered lazily from the other room. "Dobby, you are not to assist her." The elf bowed to Draco and disappeared. Hermione turned around and glared; he had not even looked up from the paper. "On your own," he said. "Now get cooking. We have a lot to do today."

Pursing her lips in annoyance, Hermione got to work. Though she was not a terrible cook, she did not have much experience with it as most of her meals were prepared by the battalion of Hogwarts elves or Mrs. Weasley's practiced touch. Unfortunately, her inexperience showed. Once she located the proper pan, she threw away five eggs until she managed to crack four without breaking the yolks. They cooked completely before the bacon had started to sizzle. She managed to squeeze the orange juice properly, though, and the toast was easy enough.

After thirty minutes of struggling and some annoyed looks from Draco, Hermione managed to bring two plates of food to the table, setting one before him and sitting across from him with the other. She kept her eyes on her own plate, knowing that if she saw the smug look on his face, she might do something rash. When her plate was empty and she _did_ look up at him, she gaped. Draco had only sipped the juice, took two bites of eggs, and didn't touch the toast or the bacon. The plate was pushed away from him and he watched her passively. "Finished?" he asked.

"You certainly aren't," she said, gesturing to his full plate.

"I've lost my appetite."

Hermione fumed. "Oh, no you did not! I worked hard and you're going to eat every last bloody _piece_ of that meal!"

She must have looked quite frightening because Draco, his flippant mood turned by her severe tone, shot her the look that a disobedient child would give his mother. Without a word, he devoured the meal.

"Happy now?" he asked her, wiping his mouth with a napkin.

"Yes."

"Now can we do what I want to do?"

"If we must."

Draco shot her a look and beckoned her to follow. They walked up the two sets of stairs to the third floor. At the end of a small corridor, Draco pressed his wand to a chipped stone. The wall dissolved into a staircase, which led to what Hermione could only assume was an attic, which was the nicest she had ever seen, completely uncluttered and dust-free. The sun filtered through the wide windows, keeping the air comfortably warm. The walls were unadorned and the wood floor was covered with a big black mat.

She looked at the mat and then to Draco, who was already standing at the center of it, waiting for her. "What is this?" she asked.

"Your training room."

Hermione approached the mat hesitantly. "And what am I to learn here?"

"Self defense."

"Where the devil did you learn self defense?"

"Seminar," he said simply. "A little less than a year into the takeover, the Muggle military mobilized. We had no idea what they were capable of and quite frankly were a little awed by what they achieved without a wand. Of course, this technology was rendered useless by a few simple spells, but the Dark Lord admired their spunk. A few paramilitary men were kept alive to teach self defense, mixed martial arts, evasion and stealth maneuvers… You get the idea. It was surprisingly popular with Death Eaters who had field assignments, but not so much with anyone else. They thought it _low_," he scoffed.

Hermione was dumbstruck. "You learned… From Muggles?"

"Never thought I would see the day," he said with a sigh, and Hermione shook her head in wonder, marveling at the mystery that was Draco Malfoy.

"Anyway, one of the first things we were taught was a definition. Self defense is a combination of technique, training and strategy," he said. "It is both a physical regimen as well as a strict mental attitude. It is knowing that your body is your own, that no one else can control or own you."

"Hold on," Hermione interrupted. "If I'm condemned to be another man's whore, or even a servant, why am I learning to defend myself? I was already there once, Draco, and I tried. But Brannon was bigger than me and no matter how hard I fought, it didn't do me any good: he had a wand."

"You didn't let me finish. It's also about temperance – about knowing _when_ to fight back and the appropriate force to use."

"But as a whore…"

"As a _whore_," Draco cut her off sternly, "you will not be solely your master's property. Brannon was a special case; he liked you." Hermione's heart gave a funny twitch. Draco sneered. "Other men are not so particular. Any one of his staff can use his plaything, just so long as she's always available for his use. You've had it easy so far, Hermione. I cannot promise that you'll always have that luck, but I can promise that you'll be prepared."

Hermione was speechless, all except for another quiet, "Oh."

"Before I start to teach you, though, I'd like to know where you're at, so I would like you to attack me." He said it so casually that Hermione wasn't sure she heard him correctly. From his tone, he may actually have asked her to please pass the jam.

"I'm not going to attack you."

He looked annoyed. "This isn't going to work unless you cooperate, Hermione. Now please, attack me."

She remained unmoving.

Draco sighed, rubbing his forehead. "Close your eyes, Hermione, and keep them closed." With a huff, she did. Draco had all but vanished. She couldn't hear him, couldn't even smell him. Her body tensed. She was about to step forward, arms outstretched to feel for him, when she heard the creak of a floorboard to her left. She stopped and waited, tilting her head to one side to hear him better. Another creak to her left. Was that where he was? She stayed frozen, bracing herself, ready to shift, when she was suddenly grabbed from behind.

Hermione let out a short, surprised scream. With her eyes squeezed shut, she jumped backward, landing on her attacker's foot. His hold loosened and Hermione spun around, slapped him, and kneed him in the groin.

She heard a quiet thump and opened her eyes just a crack. Draco asked for an attack, and from the look of it, he got more than he anticipated. Lying on the floor, he winced and looked up at her. "Good," he said in a slightly higher pitch than normal. "You have a quick reaction time and strong instincts." Slowly, he stood up. "Let's just work on honing those, shall we?"

For the next several hours, Draco introduced Hermione to the basics of self defense. She learned the right way to punch and kick and a few sly tricks that would immediately give her the upper hand. He took her through attacks from the front, behind, and the side. Each move was taken seriously and choreographed as if part of an intricate dance.

Hermione absorbed the information like a sponge. She memorized every step and, although her body lacked the grace to perform them precisely, they began to feel natural. By the end of three hours, Draco thought she was ready for her first simulation. She was wary at first, afraid she would hurt him, but her reserve soon disappeared. When Draco attacked her from behind and she failed to act with enough force, she ended up on the floor with an arm pinned behind her back, straddled and completely helpless.

"I'm not going to take it easy on you, Hermione," he said. "The best way you're going to learn is through these simulations, so apply yourself."

In the next simulation they ran, Hermione did just that, but even with her application and forethought, she still ended up pressed against a wall. Draco's body held her firmly in place. She repressed a shudder. The next three trials ended similarly. When she started throwing careless punches, Draco stopped her.

"That's enough for today," he said with cautious good-nature, letting Hermione up off the floor. She glared at him and stood with her hands on her hips, trying not to feel inferior.

"So what are we doing now?" she asked petulantly.

"Well," Draco started, crafty smirk firmly in place, "what are you making for lunch?"

After a miserable attempt in the kitchen (Draco wanted chicken salad, he got a peanut butter sandwich), he leaned back in his chair and watched as Hermione cleaned up. "I still don't see the point in me learning how to cook," she noted, scrubbing his plate. "The elves do a perfectly adequate job of it."

Draco arched a brow. "Do my ears deceive me? Is Hermione Granger, past advocate of house elf liberation, actually _complaining_ about doing their work?"

She blushed scarlet. "No! This just goes to prove my point. We don't enjoy it-"

"And they do," he finished for her. "But you'll keep cooking for me."

"Why?"

He smirked. "Because _I_ enjoy it." Hermione sneered at him and rinsed the dish instead of throwing it at his head like she wanted.

"Follow me," Draco said once Hermione finished.

"More training? Don't we ever stop?"

"There's no time to stop," he said. "Like I said before, anyth-"

"Anything could change," Hermione echoed. "I know, I know."

"Don't worry, this next exercise should be relatively amusing."

"To whom?" Hermione muttered. Draco must have heard, though, because he chuckled.

"Acting," he said, opening the study doors. "You will be learning to stay in character and, with that, to hide and display emotions at the drop of a hat. Now, here's a monologue." Draco handed the thick sheath of paper, which seemed to appear out of thin air. "Give it a few read-throughs and, when you're ready, show me what you can do."

As ridiculous as it was, Draco was right: the activity was relatively amusing. It allowed Hermione to let go of herself and embody a completely new person – one with a past and problems not her own. It was a good way to escape and, much to her pleasure, Draco seemed to take it seriously. He listened to her monologue carefully and offered his critiques at the end. Less expression on your face… Step forward at that line, not back… You're overacting… Stay in character. He seemed to be quite the theatre connoisseur. Hermione was grudgingly impressed.

After perfecting the short monologue, he worked with her on facial expressions and reactions and took her through some improvisation techniques. It was quite a pleasant training session, so unlike the cooking and the self defense disasters of earlier.

As the clock stuck four, Draco announced that it was time to stop for the day.

"Stop training?" she asked hopefully.

He looked at her strangely. "Of course not."

Hermione sighed. She was exhausted. Her days hadn't been so occupied since Hogwarts and all this movement was quite a change from years in a cell. She was vastly out of shape, her muscles weak and her body thin. But she supposed it was a good thing, being occupied. Without a distraction, she would probably be spiraling further down into despair, thinking about all those poor, dead Muggles, of her friends heaped in a hole, of her parent's charred flesh, of flying through the air toward the sea…

She shook her head to dislodge the thoughts. Draco must have noticed her silence because he looked at her with pity-filled grey eyes. "Twenty minute break," he said, "then we'll continue."

Hermione nodded and headed off to the kitchen for a glass of water. She looked out of the window to the sea as she drank. She still wanted to find a way down to the beach, but with the brutal training regime Draco was implementing… She sighed, wondering if she would ever have a chance to fully explore the property.

She arrived back at the study to see that Draco had moved all the couches. It reminded her of their Animagi practice sessions.

"Can you still do it?" she asked him.

Draco looked at her quizzically. "Do what?"

"Transform."

Without a word, he pointed his wand at his head and changed into a lean grey wolf with stunning silver eyes. Hermione smiled wistfully as Draco smoothly regained human form. The silence was awkward for a moment as Hermione wondered if _she_ still could. Sensing her unease, Draco cleared his throat.

"What you're going to learn now is something you have already dealt with: Occlumency. It won't do you much good against a strong Legilimens, but the Dark Lord places firm restrictions on who can learn it now. Still, it will help you compartmentalize your thoughts and fend off weak Legilimens. Do you remember any of this from before?"

"Yes," she responded, recalling her brief lessons with Moody, "some. But I'm afraid I'm quite out of practice."

Draco nodded. "It will come easier having done it before. Now, I don't know how you were taught, but my method is to think of it as a physical process. First, you have to gather up your memories and allocate them to a specific corner of your mind. Then, you build a wall around them, stone by stone until it completely blocks those memories out. Third is reinforcing the wall with layers. Mastery implies keeping the wall up permanently. It requires concentration, but will also help with multi-tasking. The memories you don't want seen _must_ stay hidden at all times."

Hermione nodded. "What kind of things should I hide?"

"What do you think you should hide?" She furrowed her brow in thought. "What would you not want the Dark Lord to see?"

"My past," she said immediately, thinking out loud. "I don't want him to know who I am. So my friends, also – Harry, Ron, Ginny… None of them can be seen. My parents, I'll have to block them out too…" Realization hit Hermione. "Everything," she said, looking up at Draco. "I have to hide it all."

Draco nodded. "Sit on the couch and take some time. Gather up everything and tuck it away. Concentrate. It will be hard to keep so many memories contained in one small corner, but you have to try. Your survival may depend on it."

She did as he asked, taking the first seventeen years of her life – and the small amount of information she had gathered about the covert group called Resilience – and crammed them into a mental trunk, locked it tightly and hid the key. Then, as Draco said, she tried to build a wall. Hermione thought of it physically: she could feel the weight of a hefted stone as her subconscious lifted it into place. One by one, the stones formed an unsteady-looking barrier.

"Time to see how you did," Draco said. "Open your eyes."

She did so, meeting Draco's. Without warning, he entered her mind. It was an uncomfortable sensation, but she knew it could be worse. His mind was like a shadow, slipping through her unconscious, ignoring all the unimportant memories until he reached the wall. Hermione winced, keeping eye contact, but focusing all of her energy on maintaining that wall.

Little good it did. Draco tore it down before she could muster the force needed to lift just a single stone back into place. A nudge at her mental trunk and all the memories escaped, flooding her mind and Draco's. Her childhood flashed before his eyes – her first Halloween where she ironically dressed up as a witch, the cottage her parents had rented in the country for one summer holiday, the alienation she ignored during her pre-Hogwarts schooling…

She tried in vain to gather all the memories back into the trunk, but it was no use. Draco broke contact and Hermione released a breath and the tension from her muscles.

"Not bad for your first attempt," Draco said. "But we have a long way to go. Again."

She made some progress, able to hold of Draco's attacks for longer, but as soon as she made headway, Draco increased the ferocity of his attack, rendering her efforts useless. It was endlessly frustrating, but the challenge was fun in a weird, sadistic way.

The clock struck seven and Draco stopped his attack halfway. "Dinnertime," he announced. Hermione's pleasure at holding off Draco's attack faded just as quickly as his smile appeared.

Dinner was a relatively simple task of boiled gnocchi with pesto sauce, a baguette, and a glass of red wine. Draco, for once, had no complaints, and returned his plate empty. She smiled with pride as she cleaned the dish and expected Draco to drag her out of the kitchen to their next training session. What he did instead surprised her.

"You have the evenings off. The library is open for your use, as are the rest of the rooms in the house. But Hermione," he paused and looked at her gravely. His tone grew somber. "Hermione, please promise me: if you go outside, stay away from the cliffs and the forest. I can't… I can't handle another day like yesterday." His hand strayed away from his side and cupped her cheek as his eyes pleaded with hers to make the vow.

Hermione nodded; she couldn't handle another day like yesterday either. "I promise," she said quietly. There was a long moment of silence, then she asked, "Where will you be?"

"None of your business, but nearby, at any rate," he answered quietly but firmly. "Now if there is nothing else…" Hermione shook her head no. "Good." He exited the kitchen quickly and was out of sight before Hermione could even think about following him.

She spent the rest of the night in the library, reading Draco's books on wandless magic – which were just as unhelpful as Brannon's. A little meditation to find her magic energy followed by some Occlumency practice rounded out her night. Hermione fell into bed thoroughly exhausted and slept soundly.


	15. Ch 15: The Wizard's Apprentice

**The Wizard's Apprentice**

Hermione's days quickly fell into a tight regime. She woke up around seven a.m., showered, and was in the kitchen by eight, where Draco would be waiting for her with his paper. Her training would begin when he ordered breakfast. His requests ranged in difficulty from cereal and waffles to omelets and breakfast soufflés. After that, it was any combination of acting, Occlumency and self defense until dinnertime.

By eight o'clock pm, they finished dinner and Draco disappeared to Merlin knew where. This left Hermione to wash the dishes, wipe the table and counters, restock the ingredients she used, and generally eradicate any evidence of her having prepared a meal. Her evenings were her own, so the next challenge – Hermione liked to think of it as a different kind of training – involved distracting herself for at least two hours, after which she could justify falling into bed.

This free time was a kind of delicate torture for Hermione. The break was well-deserved and, most days, absolutely necessary. But her unconscious, which until then had been repressed and ignored, took the opportunity to break free from its restraints. It seized control of her mind's eye and preyed upon her like a parasite. Vicious memories of what Draco had forced her to witness would flash by, one after another, until Hermione was nothing more than a shuddering, weeping, pathetic thing, curled into a ball in the corner of her room. She would clutch at her bracelet – that Christmas gift from Draco given to her what felt like a century ago – and wish for happier days.

Sometimes, she could fight off the memories. She spent a lot of time in the library, researching wandless magic. She also haunted the kitchens, where she baked breads, cookies, cakes, pies, tarts… Anything she wanted: the right ingredients were always on hand and the cupboards were stocked with cookbooks and equipment. She forced her baked goods upon Draco, who was a willing guinea pig for the most part, although Hermione suspected he was just humoring her most of the time.

When neither of those activities proved distracting enough, Hermione's mind wandered into dark places and she contemplated going outside for a walk. She never did, however. If the forest called to her, could she resist venturing in? If the sea and that cliff drew her near, could she stop herself from approaching the edge? She didn't know and she did not trust herself enough to try. Though once December – and six inches of fluffy, blindingly white snow – rolled in, the outdoors lost much of its appeal anyway.

One snowy night, Hermione felt unusually restless. The two kitchen elves had received their grocery order and were busy organizing the pantry and preparing cuts of meat. They had made it clear that Hermione's presence was more of a hindrance than a help, so she respected their space and stayed clear. The library was typically engrossing enough, but the lack of progress she was making with learning wandless magic frustrated her. She found that she could not focus on a novel because of it. Discouraged and agitated, the memories started to escape their feeble prison until suddenly she remembered the third tower. She still did not know where it was and the desire to find it rekindled quickly. She had staved off the memories for tonight, at least.

Using Draco's room as a reference point, Hermione quickly located the owlery. Then, she meandered around the third floor, popping her head into unfamiliar rooms. She spent ten minutes in front of the Hogwarts tapestry, her memories weaving in sync with the wall hanging. Eventually, when her mind was exhausted and her eyes had shed a few tears, she resumed her investigation. She searched each nook and cranny of the third floor. Every door was opened and every staircase was climbed, yet Hermione found nothing. She knew there was a third tower – she'd _seen_ it! How could it be that the damned thing was so hard to find?

She frowned in consternation and leaned up against the wall in a particularly desolate hallway, crossed her arms over her chest, and threw her head back. It thunked against the stone and Hermione cursed, wincing as she rubbed the growing bump. She was about to go to the kitchen for some ice and a headache potion when the wall behind her started to make a noise.

It was a soft sound, like a hum, but it grew louder, as if the wall was changing from the inside out. And perhaps it was. The hum turned to a rumble, and the rumble to a grating. Stone moved across stone like nails on a chalkboard, making Hermione's skin crawl. She was too distracted by what had appeared, though, to worry about her discomfort.

The stones ceased their grating, revealing an arched hallway about three feet wide. Intrigued, Hermione carefully crossed the threshold and felt her way along the sides. Her fingers were her only guides along the walk: the hall was black as pitch. She could not see her own hand in front of her face and, if the air had smelled thick or musty, she would have panicked. But there seemed to be a bit of a breeze in the hall and the air was fresh and crisp. If nothing else, she expected there to at least be a window at the end of the mysterious corridor.

She walked along for about five minutes, traveling slowly so as not to stumble. Finally, the hallway seemed to be a lighter shade of black and, before Hermione knew it, she tripped over a low step. She smiled: this was the third tower.

She hurried up the steps and was soon out of breath. The tower must have been taller than she anticipated. Her calves burned with the monotonous exercise, but eventually the steps terminated with a thick, heavy-looking wooden door reinforced with iron bars. It had a circular pull handle made of the same iron and practically screamed to be opened.

Who was she to refuse?

With an ear to the door, she pulled slowly, praying that the hinges would at least be oiled. By some stroke of luck, they were. Hermione chanced a smile and stepped into the room just as quietly, closing the door with a barely audible click. Then her jaw dropped in astonishment.

It was a potions lab. Unlike Snape's dungeon, which was cool and damp even on the sunniest days, the tower was full of light and comfortably warm – both amenities obviously provided by magic as it was after eight pm in December. The room had two levels. On the second were several doors, which probably led to storage closets. On the first was equipment of all sorts: cauldrons, scales, a wide array of beakers, flasks and phials, spoons, spatulas, scoopulas, knives of varying length and blade type, mortars and pestles of all different sizes. Several benches scattered the room, each with space enough for two lit cauldrons. A few simmered gently, emitting wisps of pale smoke or yellow sparks as they were magically stirred.

She walked among the benches, barely breathing for fear that she would wake from this splendid dream. Each cauldron was labeled with which potion it contained, as well as the date it was brewed. Information flooded back into her mind as she peeked into each one.

Light blue color, slightly salty smell… Hermione's stomach flipped a little. She had brewed this same potion for Draco back in seventh year. It was the hangover reliever. She frowned and wondered if he had fallen back on his old habit. The next potion was Dreamless Sleep, which was dark purple and smelled faintly like peaches. She took a ladle and spooned it up carefully, noting its viscosity as it flowed back into the cauldron. It was exactly the right thickness. Hermione smiled, setting the ladle down. An unmistakable vat of Polyjuice Potion bubbled thickly to her left.

The fourth potion she came across, the last one still simmering, stopped her dead. Freshly mown grass, new parchment… Hermione inhaled deeply, closing her eyes and relishing the scent of Amortentia. In her sixth year, she did not know what the third scent was, only that it caused her heart to contract, her stomach to flip, and her cheeks to flush. During her seventh year, though, she had pinpointed the scent: it was Draco's aftershave. It was a sharp, clean smell that did not so much cover up the smell of his skin as it blended with it, creating a perfectly delectable mixture of spice and sweat. Hermione shuddered at the very memory of it.

She spared the shimmering mother-of-pearl potion one last glance and moved away from its spiraling smoke towards the shelves lining the walls. They were stocked with healing potions of all sorts: Blood-Replenishing, Calming Draughts, Burn Healing Paste, Essence of Murtlap, Essence of Rue, and Skele-Gro. There was a large store of Veritaserum and an equally impressive store of Felix Felicis.

She fingered a bottle of the barely-containable Felix. It was so tempting. She did not know what she would even _do_ with it, but just having the option… Hermione smirked. Maybe in one of her sparring matches against Draco…

As her fingers wrapped around a tiny bottle, her name was shouted from the second story. She whipped around and looked up to see Draco's confused, slightly angry face. He had a beaker of what looked to be leeches in one hand and a large text in the other. "What the hell are you doing here?" He descended the stairs slowly as she searched for an answer.

"I was just looking around," she said, drawing her hand away from the vial of Felix and trying not to look guilty. "I remembered seeing a third spire and I was curious." Instead of coming over to her like she expected, Draco made his way to an empty cauldron. Setting it upon a stand, he lit a fire beneath it and filled it up halfway with water from his wand.

"And is your curiosity satisfied?" he asked, flipping through the book until he found the right page. He fixed her with an interested stare once he had, making her feel strangely self-conscious.

"Yes," she said, fighting off a blush.

He nodded absently and focused on his potion. Hermione stood awkwardly beside him, trying not to stare at him while he worked but finding that she could not look away. Although it wasn't magic in the conventional sense, Hermione thought Snape had it right: potion making was a subtle art. It required precise attention to detail and a thorough knowledge of the substances being used. She missed it.

"I need these leeches skinned."

"Hm?" Draco's voice had shaken her out of her reverie.

"These leeches," he repeated, sliding the slimy beaker across the bench. "I need them skinned. And when you're done, these ginger roots need to be finely shredded."

Hermione's mouth was agape. "You want me to help?"

"Well, unless you want to leave…"

"No!" She grabbed a knife and made her first incision, peeling the leech in a matter of seconds. She was delighted to see that her skills had not left her completely. She smiled and got down to business, glad to have found another way to occupy her evenings.

Weeks and then months passed, and though Hermione never would admit it aloud, Draco was a good teacher. Her emotions, which were inconsistent on a good day, became tightened and controlled. In their role-play lessons, they quickly moved from the monologue to two-character scenes, which they almost always deviated from to involve improvisation. In this, Draco ruled. His wit was rapier sharp and the only thing Hermione could predict was his unpredictability. They could do the same scene twice and once it would end in tears, then again in laughter. It was a joy to actually use her brain again and she could feel the years of subjugation slowly falling away from the beloved organ.

While they were acting these scenes, Draco often would attempt to break into her mind. Attacking her subconscious at random sharpened her reaction time as well as her ability to raise and maintain the mental wall that protected her memories. She was terrible at first, not reacting quickly enough to stop him from accessing her thoughts. Soon, though, Hermione was able to keep the memories hidden. That was, of course, until Draco intensified his attacks.

She had a feeling that Draco was not showing the full breadth of his ability, and she was right. As her wall came up more quickly and stronger, his force became more brutal and unforgiving. He ceased to probe gently, instead treating her like any other Legilimens would: breaking and wrenching her thoughts around, creating chaos within her most organized space. Hermione would invariably succumb to these invasions, but not without a long, strenuous fight first. They left her lying on the couch with her eyes closed as Draco fetched an anti-headache serum. It was a violent method of teaching, but it was effective.

The self defense lessons, though, were easily Hermione's favorite. They allowed her to release pent-up energy and frustration while at the same time strengthening her muscles. Like her other sessions, it started slowly. Draco taught her new techniques for evasion and protection almost every day. Simply learning them all was an exhaustive process, but one at which she excelled. However, when it came time to put them into practice, Hermione consistently failed.

She could execute each move perfectly in the slow, choreographed scenarios Draco ran, but as soon as he initiated the fight, she made no progress. Her kicks and punches were blocked with ease. Even the sly tactics he taught her were easily evaded.

"Why do you bother teaching me all these things if I can't even use them properly?" she yelled after getting pinned for the umpteenth time that day. Draco sighed and let her up.

"You haven't figured it out?" Hermione glared at him. "Do you think the men who are going to try to pull these things on you won't know exactly how to defend themselves against it?"

"But-"

"And even if they don't," Draco cut her off, voice rising, "does it hurt to know these things anyway? Over-preparation is never a bad thing, Hermione. You of all people should know and embrace this."

Hermione huffed at him and crossed her arms in annoyance. Draco rolled his eyes and sighed dramatically. "Come now, that's no attitude to have," he teased. "Get inventive! These are just the basic moves. Merge them, meld them, make up your own! I've given you a veritable _arsenal_ of defensive moves and you're doing nothing but the purest form of application. Be creative – have fun with it!"

"Why didn't you just tell me that's what you wanted in the first place?" she snapped, eyes flashing.

"I rather wanted you to find out for yourself, but apparently that didn't work."

She sneered at him. "Again," she said, a fierce look in her eyes. For the first time in a very long while during their defense lessons, Draco smirked.

Hermione stood with her head high and her arms rigid at her sides as Draco circled her, contemplating which angle to attack from. She silently hoped that it would be the back and, to her delight, it was. With a grunt, Draco launched himself onto her, taking hold of her arms and forcing her closer and closer to the wall. It was a simulation they had run through many times, but the choreographed version never seemed to work. She threw out the old notion and did as Draco said: improvised.

She fell to the floor, knees bouncing off the black mat, as Draco kept walking forward. He tripped over her and, while not falling over completely, was off balance just enough for her to get the upper hand. Wrenching her arms out of his hands, she slid between his legs and jumped back up. Draco had just begun to turn around when she lashed out with a well-aimed kick to his thigh.

It hit him in exactly the right place. With a cry of pain and surprise, Draco dropped to the floor, clutching his leg. With fists balled and a clenched jaw, she turned him over with her foot and placed it firmly on his chest, pinning him to the ground. Hermione looked at him down her nose, heart racing and chest heaving with exertion. Draco looked honestly surprised. "Having fun yet?" she said snidely.

She went to move her foot off his chest when he smirked wickedly. Too late to react, she could do nothing but obey the law of gravity as Draco yanked her foot out from underneath her. Hermione fell to the floor with a thud, the rough landing knocking the wind from her chest.

In a second, Draco's boot was on _her_ chest and _she_ wore the surprised expression. "Yes," he answered with a smile. "Are you?" With a final shove of his foot, he backed away, letting her catch her breath. She did so slowly, easing herself up on her elbows and glaring at him from her place on the floor.

"That was good," Draco said, casually stretching his hamstring. "You finally started to improvise, although you're lucky I didn't react faster. Dropping to the floor was a risky move. It could have backfired and you would have been finished."

"But it didn't," Hermione wheezed, clutching her chest. "I pinned you."

"And now look where you are." Hermione blushed and looked away. "Do you know where you went wrong?"

"I wasn't thinking ahead," she ground out angrily.

"Exactly," Draco responded seriously. "You thought the fight was over, but if the man you're up against really wanted you, do you think he'd stop so easily?" Hermione shook her head. "You need to stay vigilant. Once you had me pinned, you should have run or incapacitated me immediately." Hermione nodded. Even though she had been careless, a small bit of her could not help but be proud: she had finally gotten somewhere against Draco. Victory, although short-lived, was a nice feeling.

Finally offering her a hand, Draco asked her if she fancied another round. She agreed readily and they resumed their practice session, which ended with Hermione successfully pinning Draco to the floor without a chance of recovery.

One day, after Hermione had knocked Draco down to the floor, he sat back on his elbows and looked at her appraisingly. After a moment, he spoke, his voice cool and collected. "You've got it. As far as self defense goes, there is nothing more I can teach you."

Hermione allowed her heart a tiny leap, but did not let the hope or surprise show on her face. She had less success, though, of keeping it from her voice. "So what does that mean for me?"

Draco looked at her with smiling eyes. "Evolution." Hermione looked at him quizzically. "Self defense is just one part of a multi-layered discipline. It could be looked at as the starting point of something much more _interesting_… Like hand-to-hand combat." A smirk grew on his face as he spoke and there was a mischievous sparkle in his grey eyes.

"Combat training?" she asked incredulously.

Draco looked affronted. "You don't want to learn it?" Hermione could not tell if his tone was serious or mocking; she decided not to take a chance.

"No," she said quickly. "No, that's not it at all. I was just wondering where the real life application would be."

Draco shrugged. "You never know," he answered cryptically. Hermione narrowed her eyes at him. "So, are you ready to start?"

Hermione nodded and her new training began. It was similar to self defense in many ways, but it was also entirely different. Hand-to-hand combat required a different way of thinking – a more aggressive state of mind than that of self defense, where the main concern was simply to stay safe. Combat was about inflicting harm and, like casting an Unforgivable Curse, Hermione quickly learned that she had to mean it in order for the moves to do any good.

Draco walked her through the most basic techniques and they went through choreographed fights, but now, even in the choreography, it seemed she had to think and move faster. There was almost no room for error, as Draco often mentioned whenever she made a mistake.

Hermione excelled quickly. When a little more than a week had passed, Draco told that tomorrow they would spar. "There will be no mercy," he warned, "so be prepared."

A warm mixture of dread and excitement settled over Hermione's heart. That night, she studied her reflection. She had gained more weight since coming to the Keep, her body looking less emaciated as each day passed. Her muscles, which had atrophied terribly over two years in prison, were built up once more by the constant training. Her cheeks, which were still angular, looked less skeletal and her brown eyes had lost their sunken and dead quality. Even her hair looked rejuvenated. Hermione rejoiced: she finally recognized herself.

Though it would be a stretch to say that everything was back to normal. Her back and arms were laced with scars and marks of abuse, and the aches that sometimes came at night or when it rained were less frequent and less severe, but still present. Yet her mind was sharp and her senses intact. Maybe, just maybe, she stood a chance against him.

So, jaw determinately set, Hermione faced Draco the next night in the attic. Her fists were balled at her side and her mouth was a thin line, mirroring Draco's expression. "You ready?" he asked.

Unable to speak, Hermione just nodded. The air shuddered in her breast and Draco chanced a small smile. "Let's go, then."

Hermione did not even remember how it started. All she saw was Draco's fist flying through the air at her face and that she had about a split second to react. Unfortunately for her, that split second was occupied by the overwhelmingly practical thought of, _Oh bugger_. His fist collided with her right cheek and she fell to the floor.

Her vision faded for a moment. As she regained her senses, Draco appeared right next to her, looking frazzled. "Damn it, Hermione! Why the hell didn't you move?" he accused. He helped her into a sitting position and summoned a healing salve.

Hermione tenderly touched her cheek and hissed in pain. She looked at him angrily, brown eyes accusing and indignant with surprise, unsure if she was more upset at him or herself. Unable to make a decision, she said the first thing that came to her mind. "I can't believe you actually hit me!"

Draco looked shocked. "What the devil were you expecting me to do? Miss? I told you I wasn't going to show you any mercy!"

She simply glared at him and snatched the salve from his hands. She slathered the familiar, slimy balm on her cheek. Although it smelled terribly like fish, it was effective. She touched her cheek again. It was still a bit sore, but she had had worse.

"Listen," Draco started as she capped the salve, "I didn't mean to…" His words faltered at Hermione's annoyed expression. "I didn't… the punch… I thought you would move!" He groaned. His distress pleased Hermione greatly and she worked to keep the victorious smile off her face. "I don't want to stop for the night," he continued, "but if you feel like you can't go any more…"

Her mood soured. "We're continuing," she snapped, "and I'm fine, thanks for asking." She batted away his hand and got up on her own, standing opposite him once more. Draco still looked uncertain.

"Hermione, are you sure you want to-"

She cut his question short by a quick right hook. Draco barely dodged the blow and looked at her in surprise, but seeing the competitive snarl on her face and the edge in her eyes, allowed himself a grin. The fight was on.

They moved all around the room, blocking, punching, kicking, yelling. She was able to land a blow to his stomach, but the muscle was so toned Draco was hardly affected. He swept her feet out from under her, sending her crashing to the floor. The wind nearly knocked out of her, it was all Hermione could do to roll out of the way of his knee, which crashed down in the exact spot her shoulder used to be. She launched herself upward, only taking her eyes off him for a second.

But that was all Draco needed. He was behind her in an instant and combat suddenly turned to self defense. An elbow to his midsection and a hard stomp on his right foot loosened his grip. She swung blindly at his face, hoping to connect, but found her arm captured in a tight grasp. Before she could swing again, Draco had spun her around and now had complete control over her arm. He twisted it behind her back as he shoved her mercilessly into the wall.

She whimpered in pain as Draco jerked her arm higher. "Good try, Granger," he hissed into her ear, sending shivers down her spine, "but not good enough." With a final jerk, he let her go and backed away. Hermione turned to face him, her back against the wall, and massaged her arm.

She expected an assessment about her performance, but instead was asked one question. "Where is the bracelet?"

Before their session started, Hermione had debated about what to do with the delicate-looking bangle. That it had lasted this long was a surprise, and she did not want to take any chances. Her fingers unconsciously grasped her wrist. "I took it off."

"Why?" Draco's steel eyes flashed and his mouth was a thin line. He was furious.

"I didn't think I would need it."

He advanced upon her. "_Never_ take it off," he snarled. "Do you think that bracelet is just some trinket? Just some shiny, meaningless piece of metal?" He was absolutely livid – more upset than Hermione thought was necessary, and it scared her. "That bracelet is _protection_, Hermione – the only protection _I_ can give you! What the hell were you thinking, taking it off?"

"I didn't want it to break…" she said in a small voice.

"It will never break," he said between clenched teeth. "Just as it can never be removed unless you are the one to do so." Hermione looked down contritely and was about to offer an apology when Draco spoke. "We're done for the night. Go to your room and put on the bracelet. Don't ever let me see you with it off again."

With that, Draco stormed out of the attic, leaving Hermione standing dumbstruck against the wall, bordering on tears. She gathered herself shortly and did just as Draco said, shivering as the bracelet's magic coated her like a second skin. It would never leave her wrist again.


	16. Ch 16: What Can Happen With Two

**What Can Happen With Two**

Though Hermione now kept a calendar, Christmas Eve still managed to sneak up on her. It had been such a long time since she had even considered a celebration that it greatly surprised her to see Dobby stringing up tinsel, hanging holly, and hovering several large evergreens into various room of the Keep. Hermione wondered why Draco bothered to decorate: no one ever visited (to her knowledge) and Draco did not seem like the holiday type. Stranger things had happened, however, so she complacently watched the small elf decorate. Then she remembered Draco. He would want breakfast soon.

Indeed, there he was, waiting in the kitchen and trying to look nonchalant behind his habitual paper. Yet Hermione could see subtle irritation etched across his fine brow. She felt a small rush of satisfaction: it was immeasurably fun to annoy him.

"What will it be this morning?" she asked cheerfully.

"I don't care," Draco answered, pouring himself a cup of tea. He stalked into the dining room without another word. Hermione scowled after him; apparently a late breakfast did not a happy Draco make.

Brushing off her frown and his attitude, Hermione got to work on a new French toast recipe. She brought their plates to the table and sat down across from him. Normally, they made pleasant conversation about the weather, her training, or the food, but today Draco was positively stony.

"Didn't you like the French toast?" Hermione asked. He had shoved away his food half-eaten, yet looked surprised at the question.

"No," he said, "it was quite good. Different from last time. New recipe?"

Hermione hid a wince; she knew forced conversation when she heard it. "Orange juice," she said as brightly as she dared.

Draco made an appreciative noise in the back of his throat and turned back to his paper. Hermione furrowed her brow slightly and got up to clear the dishes.

"I'm going out tonight," he called to her from the dining room. Hermione quirked an eyebrow and momentarily stopped rinsing the plates.

"Oh," she said.

"I won't be home until later."

"Okay…" She hesitated – why was Draco telling her this? What he did at night was none of her business; they both made sure of that. She shook her head and continued cleaning, steadfastly not turning when he entered the kitchen.

"Don't you want to know where I'm going?"

Hermione couldn't help herself. She stopped washing and looked at him. He wore dark denims and a white t-shirt. He leaned against the doorway with crossed arms and legs, his platinum hair falling carelessly into his unreadable grey eyes. The thin scar running down the left side of his face made him look even more roguish.

"Even if I didn't, I have a feeling you're going to tell me."

"The Dark Lord is throwing a fête," he said, ignoring her quip. "I'm leaving at seven and returning at two. I won't ask you to wait up for me but I do want you to know that if I'm not back by two a.m., go to your room and stay there. The doors to both of our rooms will seal. Do not attempt to leave unless Dobby comes for you. Am I understood?" His tone was both serious and a little anxious.

"Why?" she said, trying to keep the disquiet from her voice.

He shut his eyes in aggravation and took a deep, calming breath. "Am I understood?" he repeated slowly.

"Yes," she said, waving off his irritation. "Yes, I understand. But why?" He said nothing, only turned and walked away. "It's Resilience, isn't it?" Draco stopped abruptly. The muscles in his back and neck contracted visibly, as did the ones in his hands, balling them into fists. Hermione continued uncertainly. "That day you caught me looking at you from the library? I was eavesdropping," she admitted. "But I don't understand why you're nervous. Resilience sounds beneficial for Volde-"

Draco was across the room in a flash and his hand clapped over her lips with enough force to send her entire body backward. She collided painfully with the kitchen counter. "_Do not say his name_!" he hissed, eyes flashing. "Such an offense could warrant an immediate execution. Of all the things I've suffered through, Hermione, you cannot ask me to watch you die." He removed his hand from her mouth and glared at her, his nostrils flaring. He spoke slowly, emphasizing every word. "If I am not back by two, stay in your room. Lessons are cancelled for the day." Draco stalked from the kitchen and disappeared into the maze of hallways.

Hermione leaned against the counter for a long time, shaking like a leaf in a strong autumn wind. The small of her back ached from where it collided with the counter, but that was nothing compared to the pain of being so violently treated by a man she had learned to trust again.

Once she could hold her hand steady, she finished the dishes and wiped down the kitchen. The rest of her morning was spent wandering aimlessly around the mansion and flinching at small noises. Never before had she a day with no lessons; it was unnerving and dangerous for her to have that much free time. Luckily, she found Dobby a little after noon and requested to help decorate the mansion. He was happy to assist her and she spent the day in his pleasant company, pushing Draco's outburst from her mind.

She found Draco around six pm to ask what he would like for dinner. He snarkily replied that he didn't give a shite what she made so long as it wouldn't come up later. Chicken noodle soup it was. They ate in silence and again, Draco shoved away his bowl half-eaten. His tension was palpable.

"You need to calm down," Hermione admonished softly while clearing the table. "It won't do you any good to go to that party tonight on pins and needles."

He sneered at her. "You don't know what you're talking about," he muttered into his brandy, which was apparently more appetizing than her soup. "I don't know if I'll come back alive tonight, Granger. When you are unsure about the state of your existence, then come talk to me."

It was amazing what that simple sentence did to her. Her customarily calm disposition disintegrated. Hot, uncontrollable anger surged through her veins and she slammed the bowls down onto the table. Both shattered and their contents splashed onto Draco's freshly-pressed black dress pants.

"You stupid cow!" Draco shouted as he leapt from his chair.

"You insensitive little prick!" Hermione yelled right back. "What the hell do you think Azkaban was? A holiday? You damnable, egotistical, selfish _bastard_! I'm _always_ 'unsure about the state of my existence'! In Azkaban, with Brannon… Even here! I never feel safe! Never! And I don't know where the devil you get off thinking that I do!"

Before he could say a word, Hermione stormed out of the dining room, rushed up the stairs to her room, and slammed her door. How could he be such an obtuse, imperceptive, and complete ass? She fumed for a bit longer then glanced at the clock. It was seven p.m. "I hope he gets a scare tonight… It'll serve him right, foul, miserable excuse for a human."

She took tea on the balcony. The frigid winter air, even colder for the lack of cloud cover, chilled her and the tea thoroughly. Although the stars were bright and beautiful, she did not stay out for more than ten minutes. Once back inside, she practiced her hand-to-hand combat moves, pretending to target Draco's head. Once she worked out the remnants of her rage, she drew a warm bath, soaked, and meditated before retiring to bed. By then, it was a little after nine pm.

Her temper had cooled and now a bout of indecision struck her. Should she stay up and wait for him? He did seem worried. But when she crawled into bed, the uncertainty vanished. The warm blankets, soft pillow, and supple mattress called her too strongly. She fell asleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow.

Around two am, Draco entered her room via the wall portal. He was swift, silent, and moved so fluidly that he may have been a phantom from her dream. She hardly remembered the visit, but it involved Draco saying that he was safe and offering up what sounded suspiciously like an apology. It may just been the late hour or her imagination, but she could have sworn he was sincere. He wished her pleasant dreams and a happy Christmas. He was gone as suddenly as he came.

Hermione woke the next morning in a tentatively good mood, which was solidified when she spotted a small, velvet box left on her nightstand. She reached for it and gasped when she lifted the lid. It was another charm for her bracelet – an owl. It was amber and white opal, resembling her old barn owl Amaris almost exactly. Spontaneous tears filled her eyes as she deftly attached the new charm onto the bracelet. Another layer of magic coated her and she shivered with delight. Owls were typically associated with knowledge. Perhaps that was the reason behind Draco's choice.

Dobby popped into her room shortly, presenting her with a steaming mug of peppermint cocoa and wishing her a happy Christmas. She smiled and gave the elf a hug, telling him that he was to have to day off to do whatever he liked.

"It is Mistress who will have the day off! Dobby will make both Master and Mistress a Christmas breakfast. Dobby will take care of everything." Hermione smiled as the elf disappeared. Heaven forbid he rest a single day. Knowing there was nothing she could do to persuade him otherwise, she shook her head and drew another steaming hot bath, scented lightly with peppermint oil. She reached the dining room to find Draco already seated and reading the Daily Prophet.

As soon as she sat down, a kitchen elf appeared with tea, orange juice, pumpkin juice, and water. She helped herself to a goblet of pumpkin juice and sipped it, slyly giving Draco a quick once-over. He looked fine: the circles under his eyes were no darker and he did not seem hurt or damaged in any way.

"So, you're home," she stated.

"I am," he replied, turning a page. Hermione sipped her juice again.

"Everything went well?"

"As can be expected."

Hermione nodded. He hadn't seemed so sure of that outcome last night, but she decided not to press her luck. "Good," she replied instead. A moment's silence passed. "Thank you for the charm. It's lovely."

"I'm glad you like it," he said softly. For some reason, he would not meet her eyes.

"I know owls are associated with knowledge," Hermione continued, unwilling to let the conversation die just yet. "Was that your reason for getting it?"

"Partly," he said. "It's also associated with luck, especially for Earth signs like you."

Hermione raised an eyebrow. "I didn't know you had an interest in astrology," she remarked.

"I don't."

Taken aback, Hermione managed a small, "Oh" before taking another sip of juice.

She was spared the inevitable awkward silence by several house-elves appearing at once, bearing a tureen of scrambled eggs, plates of sausage, bacon, potatoes, and toast, as well as a platter of cinnamon rolls and scones. They admired the food, praised the elves' handiwork, and tucked in. They managed to make comfortable conversation. Hermione smiled; all seemed back to normal again.

After breakfast, instead of retreating to the study or the attic for training, Draco suggested that they go for a walk outside.

Hermione looked skeptically out the window. "It's freezing out there."

"There are charms for that." She threw him a sideways glance and acquiesced. Excusing herself for a moment, she went upstairs to don her hat, gloves, winter coat, and boots. She met him in the study.

"Where are we going?" she asked as he opened the door. A swift gust of winter air knifed through her the moment she set foot outside, piercing through her coat and hat as if they were made of silk. Draco ignored her question and pointed his wand at her. Hermione suddenly felt as if she were wrapped in a warm blanket. The spell did not keep out all of the cold, but made it feel like a chilly and not unpleasant autumn day.

"You wanted to find a way down to the beach," Draco said as they walked away from the mansion. "Are you still interested?"

Hermione smiled. "Yes, I am."

Draco nodded. "This way, then."

He led her near to the cliff, but turned left sharply before reaching the edge. They made their way to the edge of the forest. She followed him closely, not so much looking at the scenery as she was the tracks his boots were making in the ground. So as to have an easier time, she focused on matching her footprint with his, not realizing until then how much taller than her he really was.

At the periphery of the woods was a path so overgrown that Hermione was not surprised she had missed it on her first inspection. Ice-covered twigs barred their way but were broken away easily by a brush of Draco's hand. Thus started their slow and slippery descent to the sea. The path was snowy in places, icy in others, and Hermione found herself slipping and sliding all over the place, falling to the ground with an, "Oomph!" at least twice. Draco chuckled and helped her up both times, taking care to warn her when the path got particularly tricky. She noticed that he did not fall once. As he navigated safely between two rather sharp looking branches and she got both caught in her hat, Hermione could not help but be envious of his natural grace.

Eventually they reached the bottom. The ocean was much calmer that day, the waves barely lapping upon the shore. An occasional breeze ruffled Hermione's hair, but it was nothing like the wind up at the Keep. Small snowflakes fell from the sky, which was as grey as the sea and Draco's eyes.

"You've come a long way in your training," Draco said. The remark surprised her and she turned to look at him. He looked steadfastly out at the ocean, his face betraying little.

"I'm glad I haven't disappointed you."

"You could never disappoint me, Hermione," he said softly. Her heart jumped, but she kept the blush off her face – those acting lessons weren't for nothing, after all – so her response was only a smile. She turned back to the ocean, but could not keep her eyes from straying back to him.

Draco was such an enigma. There were times during her training when she swore he was different, that he had changed. It was as if he had developed a depth or a complexity, but she could not pinpoint how or, more importantly, why.

It didn't help that she was about as biased as an observer can get. She had loathed him for most of her life, loved him passionately for a brief moment, and now she… Hermione furrowed her brow. Hated him again? She certainly had reason to. Though she'd had her doubts in Azkaban about his motives, seeing his memories extinguished that uncertainty. Draco had acted selfishly when he gave up the Order to Voldemort. He could have chosen a different path, could have been honest with her from the start. Together, they could have prevented hundreds, perhaps even thousands of deaths. But he had chosen to save his own skin instead. He had betrayed her, and she had nearly died because of it. So, hate him? Yes, she could.

But how difficult she found it! Working with Draco every day for hours on end had taken her back to their time at Hogwarts, back to that fleeting moment where he meant everything in the world to her, when she loved him more than she loved herself. Every look, every touch, every shared experience… Those feelings were powerful, almost overwhelming. It would be easy to fall into step with him again, to let him sweep her off her feet and into his bed. She scoffed silently and corrected herself: it _could_ be easy if she forgot what had happened. But she couldn't forget, wouldn't allow herself to. What he did could not, _should_ not, be ignored.

She would not hate him for the love they had shared.

She could not love him for the pain he had caused her.

What did that leave her with?

Hermione smirked. Not much, admittedly. But there was something, wasn't there? She could feel it among the pieces of her shattered heart, something small and warm. She could feel it when she looked at him or when they touched. She thought she could feel it when he looked at her, but that was probably just her imagination.

Sometimes, Hermione thought she could name it. Respect. Draco was a very good teacher. Kind and gentle when appropriate, severe and unyielding the rest of the time. He made her smile. He could even make her laugh, occasionally. And she was progressing – he said it himself. What he took her from, what they were doing now, their mutual esteem… Was all of that laying the groundwork for a new relationship? Was it strong enough to support what they built and not collapse under the weight of what had happened?

Hermione sighed. So many questions and so few answers. She looked at him again. His face was expressionless at first glance, but Hermione knew him better than that. There was a softness around the corners of his lips and eyes. His brow was smooth in quiet contemplation. His chin was not set, which meant his teeth were not clenched. He was relaxed. A small uptick at one corner of his mouth. He was happy.

She could not repress her own smile as she drew her eyes away from him. They stayed like that, together but silent, for some time, facing something that was so much larger than either had ever imagined. Hermione, for her part, felt very small.

"We should head back up," Draco said eventually. Hermione nodded. She followed him up the same path, which wasn't nearly as difficult this time, and trudged through the woods to the Keep. Just as she was leaving the boundary of the trees, a wind gusted, blowing her hair straight back from her face.

The whispering. The unknown. The pull. It came as a rush and Hermione lost herself in the sensation. Branches tangled themselves into her hair and caressed her backward. She turned, more than willing to brave whatever the forest had to show her.

She was no more than one step in the opposite direction when a flash of golden light exploded at her side. The branches, which were forming a barrier between her and Draco, shattered. More precisely-aimed spells flew from his wand and the forest succumbed to the onslaught. Reality hit hard when Draco grabbed her arm and pulled her from the forest. His eyes were wide and frightened.

"What was that about?" Hermione's voice shook, as did the rest of her. Draco pulled twigs out of her hair. "Did it really just try to pull me in?"

Their eyes locked. A thick tension hung between them. Finally, Draco cleared his throat. "Like I told you, the forest is dangerous." He looked past her and eyed it warily. Not a branch moved. "Stay away from it." Usually such a direct order would rankle her, but in this case Hermione was eager to obey. They walked back to the Keep in silence.

After working in his potions laboratory for a few hours, Dobby called them for Christmas dinner. The table, which normally was fit to seat ten, was set for two with delicate-looking fine china, silver that was polished to a high shine, and heavy crystal goblets filled to the brim with Chardonnay. The candlelight and soft violin music lent it a romantic air and Hermione's heart gave a strange flutter when Draco pulled her chair out for her.

They had been seated for a minute when a veritable feast – far more than two people could eat – appeared through the table. A fat, perfectly roasted goose sat on a platter garnished by roasted potatoes and carrots. A tureen of Brussels sprouts and chestnuts sat to the left and to the right was a plate of Yorkshire pudding. They ate slowly and smiled often, and their wine goblets refilled themselves whenever the liquid level seemed lower than acceptable. She lost count of how many glasses Draco had, but she limited herself to two, which was more than enough for her low tolerance.

When they had finished dinner, the plates sank through the table and were replaced by two slices of the most delicious chocolate cheesecake she had ever seen. Her fork slid through the dessert as if it were air and, as layer upon layer of dark, rich decadence melted on her tongue, her body warmed and thrummed with pleasure. The sweet Merlot with which it was paired undoubtedly helped those feelings along and Hermione was feeling wonderfully tranquil by the time all was through.

They retreated to the study when they finished. Draco poured himself another drink and sank into a large, soft leather armchair. Hermione grabbed a novel and sat before the hearth, intending to read, but her eyes felt blurry and could not focus on the small print. After half a page of nonsense, she set the book aside and leaned back on her arms. She stated out the window and allowed her mind to wander.

After several minutes of silence, Draco sighed. "Well, time for your training."

Hermione looked up at him in surprise. "Training? I thought I had the day off."

"Whatever gave you that impression, my dear?"

"The fact that you didn't say anything about it," she replied, ignoring the endearment. "What are we going to work on? Occlumency?"

"Seduction," Draco said matter-of-factly. To say that his suggestion caught her off-guard would be an understatement. She started at him blankly. He swirled his glass of bourbon, the two ice cubes colliding gently with the glass. He took a sip and Hermione noticed light pink patches sitting high on either cheek.

Then, it clicked. Of course. "You're drunk," she accused. He grinned, arched an eyebrow, and patted his leg. "And a pig," she sneered. There was not _nearly_ enough alcohol in her system for this. She grabbed the book and rose to her feet, storming toward the door. His hand darted from the arm of his chair as she passed and grabbed her wrist tightly, halting her progress.

"Now Hermione, you know very well that's not how I like my dirty talk."

"Let me go, Draco," she seethed.

He chuckled, a low, throaty sound. "Most men prefer women a tad more compliant than you, my little imp. If they don't, then you'll want to be willing anyway. They'll lose interest faster."

"And you would know?"

"_You_ would know," he countered seriously and his eyes spoke to her. Suddenly, Hermione remembered Channing Orman. She shuddered involuntarily. If she never saw him again, it would be too soon. "But I see I'm using the wrong tactic," he continued. "Yours is the language of logic, so allow me to elaborate. I promise I'll be brief," he said as she tugged on her wrist. "If you are acquired to satisfy a man's more carnal urges, participating willingly may bring you more than you ever hoped for."

At this, Hermione remembered Brannon, but without the shudder. Hadn't that exact circumstance arisen? Hadn't she handled it in that exact way? She furrowed her brow and looked into his grey eyes, which sparkled mischievously. It was just a coincidence, Hermione decided. After all, how could he have known?

"I will not lower myself to that ever again," she hissed, "nor will I lower myself to you."

Draco smiled wickedly. "Temper, temper. That's no way to get a man into your bed. Maybe _I_ should seduce _you_." He pulled her arm toward him and those three glasses of wine caught up with her: Hermione could do nothing but fall neatly into his lap. His hands burned a trail up her arms to her shoulders, and seemed to be intent on spreading further. But falling into Draco was an incredibly sobering experience. She lifted herself up, freed her arm and delivered a fierce right hook to his face.

His grip loosened immediately and she was off him in a moment. He let out a stream of curses, which Hermione ignored as she marched out of the study in a black mood and slammed the door. Draco laughed again, louder this time, and she turned around to pummel him properly. But as her hand alighted upon the door handle, an idea struck, one which her current blood alcohol level allowed her to entertain. She thought about it for no more than a second when a sinister smile spread across her face. She turned around again and headed toward the kitchen. Oh, he would be sorry for that little trick. She would make sure of it.

After grabbing a bottle of wine, and not bothering with a glass, Hermione barricaded herself in her room. She had a lot of work to do and very little experience doing it. Her vanity drawers were stocked with the usual cosmetics that girls her age often wore, but Hermione ignored them. Draco liked her without makeup and had said oh-so-long-ago that she was beautiful enough as it was. Though his opinion was likely quite changed now, tonight was no night for experimentation. Tonight was a night for focus.

Her hair, then. Something needed to be done with that mess of chocolate brown curls. In a drawer below the makeup were products of all sorts: mousses, sprays, irons, and strange-looking clips with long teeth. Hermione sorted through them all, at last finding a mousse which advertised the ability to, "tame wild ringlets into soft cascades of silk." She applied it liberally. After an hour of teasing, she decided that her hair was not so much tamed as it was temporarily disciplined. She shrugged; it would do for tonight.

Next came her wardrobe. Most of her dresser drawers were filled with sensible clothes: long pants, warm jumpers, comfortable cardigans. Even her underwear drawer was modest, featuring bikini-cut briefs and full-cup bras. Except for one item. One exquisitely lewd and infuriatingly fetching item of green satin and soft lace, which hugged her breasts like a second skin and fell perfectly to the hem of the matching lace panties. It was more worthy of Brannon's cellar than Draco's tower. Why it was even there was a mystery to her. To taunt her? To remind her of old times?

Or maybe for a night like tonight. Hermione needed to polish off three quarters of the wine before she could bring herself to step into the lingerie. But he _had _always liked her in green. She scoffed – what a comforting thought.

By the time Hermione could hear Draco's footsteps outside her door, it was close to midnight. By the time she heard him climb into bed by listening at the wall portal, it was half past. In another ten minutes, he had stopped tossing and turning and she had finished the entire bottle of pinot grigio. Though Hermione did not approve of excessive drinking, she could not deny the effectiveness of alcohol for lowering one's inhibitions to the point of sheer stupidity, which is where hers were now floating blissfully along.

She took a deep, stabilizing breath, checked her reflection in the mirror one last time, and ignored the miniscule part of her brain which wondered if this was actually a good idea. She pressed her hand to the worn patch wall in the corner and thought of Draco. The wall became semi-solid and allowed her through.

Even though she was thoroughly drunk, Hermione thought Draco's room would have equally impressive sober. Because it was in the tower, the room was two stories high. The first floor was where he slept, the most telling sign being the almost unbelievably large bed situated in the middle of the room. The sheets were black – typical – and the man sleeping in it was lost beneath a mound of blankets and pillows. She crept up to the edge of the bed and looked down at him.

Draco slept on his back, his arm tossed over his head. His platinum hair fell into his closed eyes and he looked almost peaceful. A small "v" occupied the space between his brows, as if he was puzzling out the answer to a riddle in his dreams. His chin was strong, pointed, and shadowed with stubble that had grown since the morning. She felt that Draco could grow a handsome beard had he wanted to, though she hoped he never would. His countenance was too impressive to be hidden with unnecessary hair.

Her eyes lingered on his face until he shifted. Blankets fell away from his chest. She could just see the outline of his collarbone and the beginning of the thick, pink scar which ran diagonally across his chest. Hermione felt a twinge of sadness and nostalgia as she remembered how that particular flaw came about. An almighty snore jerked her out of her reverie and Hermione had to clap her hand over her mouth to keep from giggling. What a little angel. Her hand strayed from her side and hovered over his hair. There was a moment of tension as she fought the impulse to move the stray locks away from his forehead, but she fought it successfully. She smiled: she was stronger than she thought. With a quiet sigh, she backed away from his bedside to the center of the room. Hermione would deal with him later. Now, there was a room to explore.

Nightstands punctuated either side of the bed and a large bureau sat to the left of it. The wall opposite the bed's headboard held a large fireplace. The fire within it was small but well maintained and gave her enough light to see by. Two windows, currently hidden behind thick drapes to block the sun, were set amongst landscape paintings, plush chairs and two large bookshelves. The latter held not only their usual content, but also knickknacks and what Hermione suspected to be a few of the more innocuous Dark objects, if such things even existed.

A stone staircase was secreted away in a corner and Hermione stumbled toward it, nearly tripping over a pair of hastily discarded trousers. She did not know what to expect as she ascended the staircase, but what she saw blew her away.

She had stepped into a vast, grassy field. No. Hermione shook her head violently. That couldn't be. She shut her eyes and cursed; she did not know that wine caused hallucinations. After a sound pinch to the skin of her arm, she opened her eyes again. This time, she shook her head in wonder. She wasn't crazy.

Soft grass grew up to her knees and a warm breeze played with her hair. The air smelled fresh and lightly floral, like lilies-of-the-valley. She looked up and staggered. The ceiling was charmed to look like the night sky, just like the Great Hall of Hogwarts had been. The night was clear and starry. No moon shone. Hermione could see everything, could see forever. She gasped. This was _infinity_.

Her head reeled; she needed to sit. In the center of the field was a large mattress which rested upon an ornately carved frame. She lowered herself onto it and laid back. Thoughts of revenge disappeared and most traces of inebriation ebbed away. There was only this room, this sky, this mattress and herself.

Or so she thought.

The mattress sank down beside her and Hermione gave a quiet yelp and started upward. Draco reached out toward her and laid a hand upon her shoulder.

"It's me," he said softly. "I didn't mean to startle you."

Hermione shook her head and smiled, lying back down. Without a word, Draco joined her.

Though the room was a comfortable temperature, the heat from Draco's bare skin – he had not put on a shirt – made her own break out in gooseflesh. She shuddered involuntarily. Draco had the gentility not to remark on it, but she thought she could feel him smile.

"I'm sorry I woke you," she said. "I thought I was being silent."

"Quiet as a mouse," he confirmed.

"Then how…?"

He chuckled. "I always know what's happening in my house, Hermione."

"So when did you wake?"

"When you stepped through the wall."

A blush colored her already rosy cheeks. "That snore?"

"My comedic timing is priceless, you must admit."

She groaned in embarrassment and slapped her palm to her forehead. "Leave it to you to ruin a moment."

"You looked entirely too tender for your own good," he admonished.

She groaned again, wincing. "Let's just forget that ever happened."

"Impossible," he said cheerfully. "It was the highlight of the evening."

Hermione hit him on the arm playfully and he laughed. After a while, he spoke again.

"So what's this about?" He touched the edge of her lingerie, the tips of his fingers barely grazing her hip. She felt electricity jump from them. The gooseflesh remained.

"Revenge," she said with a smirk, "for that impropriety in the study."

"Naughty wench. What were you going to do? Ambush me in bed and then leave me before seeing it through?"

Hermione giggled. "Got it in one."

Draco sighed, almost wistfully. "I would have deserved it."

"Was that an apology?"

He chuffed. "Hardly." He could not keep the smile off his voice. "Though I can't say I wouldn't have enjoyed it. You look rather delectable. I always loved you in green."

"And a compliment!" Hermione gasped in mock-surprise. "What a night this is for you." She could feel Draco smile again. "You know, I needed to drink a whole bottle of wine before I had the nerve to put this on."

Draco lifted himself up on his elbow. "An entire bottle?" She nodded. "I thought you were being more loquacious than usual." He took out his wand and with a smart flick summoned two small vials of the hangover relieving potion. "Take one now and the other before you go to sleep. You'll need it."

Hermione smiled and did as he said, draining one and placing the other one on the corner of the mattress. They were silent for a long while and Hermione felt the potion start to take effect. Her head felt less fuzzy and when she next spoke, after a long silence, it was about something with more gravity than lingerie.

"Do you ever wonder what it's all about, Draco?"

"Hm?" His head turned and she could feel his grey eyes study her. Her gaze remained focused on the stars.

"This. All of this." She gestured toward the heavens and was struck by the same feeling she had when looking out at the ocean earlier in the day, but much more powerfully. "We're so small. Specks on a rock that shoots around a star, lost in a vacuum of nothingness." As if to prove her point, light streaked across the sky, a meteoroid instantly vaporized by the atmosphere. Draco made an affirmative noise in the back of his throat. "What's the point of it all?"

Her companion was silent for a while. "I don't know. I suppose we have to do the best with what we have."

"But what can we _do_?" Hermione countered. "What possible difference can we make?"

Draco was quick with his answer, but spoke very softly. "One person can change the course of history."

Tears sprang to Hermione's eyes. She dashed them away angrily. "Who knows what will happen with two," she finished bitterly. Famous last words. How they haunted her now.

"Hermione…"

Draco's tone was significant, expectant, and hinted at a conversation that she was not willing to have. He shifted toward her, leaning up on his elbow to look down at her. His face was perilously close. That was her cue. She grabbed the potion bottle from the mattress corner. "Goodnight, Draco." She left him without a backward glance.


	17. Ch 17: To a Year of Changes

**Author's Note**: Hey all! Just a quick little note: I really appreciate all of your reviews and you are, of course, entitled to your opinions. However, if you do review, I would really appreciate if you signed it so that I can reply. It's frustrating to read a critical review and not have the opportunity to explain or defend myself. Please keep it in mind! Thank you!

**To a Year of Changes**

What had she done?

That was the thought running through Hermione's head as she unsuccessfully defended herself against Draco's vicious attacks. He threw her against the wall and, with the speed of a top predator, pinned her arms above her head. Her chest was flush against the wall and his was pressed firmly against her back. His breath seared the flesh of her neck as he growled in frustration.

"Where's your head at today, Granger?" He pressed her into the wall painfully for a second, then released her and stepped back. She turned around to glare at him and massaged her wrists, which were undoubtedly going to be bruised later. "Why aren't you taking this seriously?"

"I am taking it seriously," she managed to gasp, despite her chest's reluctance to function properly.

Draco growled and rushed at her again. It was all Hermione could do to throw her hands up to block his blows. For every step she took away from him, he took two toward her, and soon she was against the wall, pinned again.

"You could have fooled me," he replied scathingly. Her head was in the space between his shoulder and neck, the seat of his scent. She could feel the hot puffs of air from his lungs and hear the rumble of his low, dangerous voice as it clawed its way from his throat. Hermione closed her eyes and tried not to breathe.

What the _hell_ had she done?

It was three days after Christmas. Hermione had expected their routine to continue on as it had before the holiday, but Draco had other plans, arranging what he called "social visits" with his Death Eater compatriots. Hermione thought "social visits" was a very ambiguous term. She suspected it was really code for Resilience meetings. She never voiced her suspicion, but Draco's attitude seemed to confirm it for her; he left the Keep at odd hours and always returned with a furrowed brow and a foul temper.

Her lessons took second place to these outings. When they did occur, however, it was with a marked increase in intensity. He buffeted her mind constantly with Legilimency attacks and their staged fights no longer stopped when someone landed a decent blow, instead continuing until one of them was on the floor, bleeding, unconscious or both. The acting lessons had been abandoned. Draco expected her to maintain her character – a more contained, composed version of herself – at all times. It was a matter of course that, while Hermione endeavored to keep her head on straight, Draco seemed perilously close to losing his.

Their night under the stars seemed to awaken something malevolent in him. Before, he was a well-rounded teacher – kind but stern – and therefore produced a well-rounded pupil. Now, he was all angles, and Hermione was feeling just as jagged. His voice was sharp and cutting, dripping with sarcasm and disapproval. His eyes blazed with anger, perhaps hatred, and bored into her mercilessly. His demands were extreme and he did not hesitate to berate her if she did not comply fast enough. If they were in the attic when this happened, she could expect a lesson like today's, filled with enough physical abuse to satisfy even the cruelest Azkaban guard.

In short, ever since Christmas, Draco was being a right bastard for no discernable reason. The stress was wearing Hermione very thin, nearly to breaking. If it went on much longer, she would.

And maybe today would be that day. Draco shoved himself away and lunged at her once more, but Hermione had finally caught her breath. She was ready for him this time. His fist flew toward her face, but she ducked and moved behind him, jabbing him in the kidney as she did so. He turned around faster than she could blink and kicked at her once, twice, until she caught his foot in her hands. She jerked upward. Draco dropped to the floor with a loud thud and she heard the air whoosh from his lungs. She stepped out of his reach and looked down at him as he blinked back into being.

"What the devil is your problem?" she shouted angrily. Draco took shallow breaths and started to right himself, staring at her. Faster than she expected, he made a grab for her ankle, but she was quicker and leapt nimbly out of his reach. He was up by the time she had landed and stalked toward her, his fists clenched and raised. Hermione stuck first, her blow parried by the outside of his arm. She continued the assault.

"All week you've been beating me!" Another parry. "Berating me!" Dodge. "Abusing me!" She kicked him in the leg; he crumpled slightly. "And I'm sick of it!" She kicked him again, a roundhouse which landed on his left cheek. He flew to the right and landed on the floor again. "Why?" she screamed. Her eyes filled with frustrated tears and she glared at him.

Draco was slow to get up. He propped himself upon his elbow and wiped his mouth. "First blood," he chuckled, turning his eyes up toward her. They sparkled from beneath his light lashes, not with mirth or chagrin, it seemed, but with cruelty and derision. "You win."

Hermione highly doubted that. "What's wrong with you?"

Draco scowled for a long while, as if she should have known without having to ask. "I'm going to a fête on New Year's Eve." That was in four days. "Follow the same protocol as last time."

"That doesn't answer my question," she retorted, her voice like tempered steel. "Why are you being so cruel? I thought…" She hesitated. The adrenaline-soaked air did not seem conducive for an emotional speech, but Hermione felt that if she did not talk to him here, she would not have another chance. "I thought things were changing… That they were better." Her look and tone remained hard as diamond, but she could not stop disappointment from adding its dreary color.

Draco broke eye contact and spat a gob of blood onto the black mat. "Then that was my cruelty," he whispered, "allowing you to think that things were better. They aren't, Hermione, and neither am I. Men like me can never change." They were silent for a long while. "I think we're done here."

Hermione did not move. She stared at him like he was a stranger. Were things not better between them? Draco had brought her back from the brink of death. He had rejuvenated her, mind, body and soul. He had shown her kindness and consideration. He respected her. He was proud of her. They had shared a moment – perhaps even several of them – on Christmas day that simply begged for continuation. Was that not progress? Was that not better?

"I don't understand," she said. "I don't – "

"Then you haven't learned anything," he spat, "and I have failed you."

Hermione's brown eyes overflowed with tears. Draco's behavior was positively insane. One day, he was the man she used to know, smiling and quick-witted, and the next he was this unrecognizable thing, a shade of a human, with black humors and a foul essence.

She shook her head. There had to be something else, some kind of trigger. "Is this about Christmas, Draco?" she asked softly. "Is this about when – "

"It's about everything, Hermione!" he yelled, interrupting her again. He stood quickly, suddenly towering over her. Patches of pink sat high on his cheeks. "It's about Christmas! It's about these past three months! It's about what I've done to you! It's about what you've done to me! And I can't… I just can't…" He broke off with a wild look and ran his fingers through his hair. "Just leave. Get out. Go. Now!"

Hermione was a mess of emotion. She was furious, confused, frustrated and hurt. She wanted to scream at him, to injure him, but the thought of being near him for much longer made something in her chest start to rage. She could not restrain the coarse growl that ripped past her lips.

"If I'm your problem, Malfoy, then you just should have killed me when you had the chance." He looked at her with a strangely martyred expression. Hermione fumed. "I'm through trying to figure you out," she snarled. "I'm through. Finished. Do you hear me? I'm done with you!"

Hermione turned on her heel and stomped away, slamming the attic door, cursing him and everything associated with him. Her rampage took her to the library, where she snatched several texts off the shelves and then headed to her room. She threw the books onto her bed as carefully as her rage would allow and then did some rearranging. Her bureau, for instance, would look quite nice in the corner with the weathered paint which connected her room to Draco's. The vanity would do well in front of the door.

Before she could even ask, Dobby appeared in her room with a sharp, whip-like crack and a tea tray. He had certainly heard her stampeding through the Keep. She thanked him quietly and poured herself a cup. The warm brew calmed her and helped push Draco's bipolar behavior from her mind. His sudden flare of anger, that damned martyred expression… She could not help snarling again, even as she curled up in an armchair near her fireplace and started to read. Soon enough, Hermione was calm enough to slip into an alternate universe that was infinitely better than her own.

Four days passed in blissful solitude. Draco did not attempt to bother her. Hermione did not attempt to seek him out. She made herself dinner and practiced self defense. She read three books and talked with Dobby. Self-reliance was a trait she prized and one that she felt she had lost in this new world. Relearning it was a refreshing change.

Well after seven o'clock on New Year's Eve, when it was guaranteed that Draco would be gone for the evening, Hermione ventured out of her room. She cooked a simple dinner of glazed pork loin, green beans, and rice pilaf and ambled into the library once she had finished to enjoy a book. Something was missing as she settled herself across a loveseat, however.

"Dobby?"

The elf was prompt. "Mistress called?"

"I was wondering if there was any way to have some light music tonight. Maybe something classical, with piano or violins?"

"Mistress shall have her music!" Dobby squeaked. "Dobby shall be back soon."

He was true to his word and reappeared within a minute. Soft, beautiful music filled the quiet space and Hermione smiled. "Perfect," she said. "Thank you, Dobby."

Dobby bowed low and disappeared. She was alone for several hours and around nine p.m., he surprised her with a plate of warm brie, butter crackers, sweet red grapes and a goblet with a bottle of Chardonnay. It happened to be exactly what she wanted and she thanked him again, telling him that he could have the rest of the night for himself, if he wanted.

The wine disappeared with the hours. The bottle refilled itself, like all bottles in the Keep seemed to do, so that made it a bit difficult for Hermione to keep track of how much she drank. She managed, however, to not overindulge. Soon it was midnight and she listened as the chimes echoed through the nearly-empty mansion. She raised her glass alone. "To me," she whispered, " so that I can make it through another year."

As she put the glass to her lips, there was a loud pop of Apparation. Draco appeared before her, looking a little disheveled in his black dress robes. She lowered the glass and suppressed a scowl. He was home far too early.

"What are you drinking?" he asked. Hermione was about to say that it was none of his bloody business, but he did not give her the chance. He walked over to her and hefted the bottle in his hands. "Chardonnay?" He shot her a sideways glance. "A fine vintage, but inappropriate. It's New Year's Eve. We drink champagne tonight." With a flick of his wand, the bottle was replaced with two flutes of pink-tinted champagne, already chilled. Draco handed Hermione one – she had no choice but to take it or else it would have spilled all over her lap – and he took the other.

"To a year…" Draco started his toast, but seemed to lose the words. He looked at Hermione, his grey eyes plumbing hers to their very depths, betraying little. But she knew better than that. She could see the tension in his forehead and lips, which were downturned slightly. His eyes seemed to lose their focus, but only for a moment. "To a year of changes," he finally continued. "To changes and to duty. To no fear and no regrets." It was a very strange toast, one that made the fine hairs on Hermione's neck stand on edge.

He clinked his glass to hers and took a large sip. Hermione did not.

"It's bad luck to ignore a toast," Draco scolded quietly, "and impolite."

There was no hiding her scowl this time as Hermione tipped the glass to her lips. Draco nodded, satisfied. "I won't ask you for a kiss," he said.

"You're lucky you got the toast," she replied venomously, setting the flute down.

Draco looked a bit repentant. He pulled an armchair closer to Hermione and took a seat. He rolled the stem of the glass between his fingers and looked like he was bracing himself for what he was going to say. "I must apologize for my recent behavior towards you, Hermione," he said quietly. He met her eyes; Hermione thought they looked sincere, but she had been fooled before. She waited for him to continue. He did not.

"And?" she prompted after several moments had passed.

"That wasn't enough?"

Hermione scoffed. "I asked you why, Draco. Why were you being so cruel? What did I do to you?"

Draco almost replied, but then closed his mouth with an audible click. He leaned forward and put his head in his hands, covering his face. The champagne flute tipped precariously near his right ear. It seemed like he was bursting to say something.

"Draco?"

He took a deep, shuddering breath and Hermione sat ramrod straight, her pulse quickening. If she did not know any better, she could swear that Draco was on the verge of tears. She sat very still. After a moment, Draco stood and drained the rest of his champagne, being very careful not to meet Hermione's gaze.

"You deserve much better than I could ever give you, Hermione," he said very softly. "I'm sorry it can't be different, that I can't be…" He drew another shuddering breath and, before Hermione could say a word, left her alone for the night.

After hours of thought and very little sleep, Hermione decided Draco's behavior was far too cryptic to decode without a key. She needed to talk to him, to have an actual conversation instead of the shouting matches which had become so common between them. So she arrived in the kitchen early the next morning, a dark circle under each eye but still eagerly awaiting Draco. Hermione hoped that this deviation from custom would catch him off guard, and perhaps in a better, more sober mood.

However, as eight a.m. rolled around, Draco was neither in the kitchen nor the dining room. It was strange, but there was no reason to panic. It was possible that Draco was still asleep. Not probable, of course, but possible. At any rate, he would be down soon. She busied herself with tidying the kitchen and putting the kettle on.

Twenty minutes passed. Draco was still absent. Now there was some cause for concern, as Draco was fond of schedules and hardly ever late. What could possibly delay him for twenty minutes?

"Dobby?" The elf appeared at once. "Dobby, could you go wake Draco please? Tell him he's late for breakfast."

"Yes, Mistress Hermione." He disappeared and was back a minute later. "Dobby cannot find Master Draco, Mistress. Dobby looked upstairs and downstairs, and even in the Master's bathroom." He said the last in a whisper, as though afraid of having committed a transgression. Hermione admired his thoroughness.

"Maybe he's in the laboratory? Or the attic?"

"Dobby will check for you, Mistress. Dobby will look everywhere!"

Hermione nodded and leaned against the counter, her arms crossed. What if Draco never made it to his room last night? Where else would he go? Was he intentionally avoiding her? She chewed her lip for several minutes until Dobby returned. "I has not seen him, Mistress. Dobby searched the whole house, even outside!"

She furrowed her brow. "Maybe he just went for another of his social visits," she mused more to herself than to Dobby. "He'll be back soon, I'm sure." Trying to ignore the creeping feeling of unease, she made herself breakfast. She could not eat a bite of it.

Hermione did not see him for the rest of the day. She wandered the mansion, visiting each of the rooms she and Draco frequented during their training together, still puzzling over what he had meant. He had referenced what he had done to her. What _hadn't_ he done to her? Tricked her into love, betrayed her, aided in the murder of her family and friends, sent her to Azkaban, rescued her from Brannon, rehabilitated her back into a recognizable human, showed her compassion in a world where none would be given…

What had she done to him? Fallen into every one of his traps. Vaulted him into fame within Voldemort's circle. Accepted his betrayal, become permanently scarred by the pain he had caused her. But then accepted his help, let him pick up the pieces of her broken self and fit them together again. She let him remake her into a functional human being.

Draco had apologized to her for… For what? Everything? He had said she deserved better. She had to wonder if there _was_ any better in this world. She scoffed: since when had Draco Malfoy become the standard of decency?

The idea was not entirely comforting as Hermione shut her eyes for the night, thoroughly exhausted. Draco did not make any sense, but he was the only one that could answer any of her questions. He was also missing. She sighed. Just her luck. That thought reverberated through her head as she fell into sleep, cocooned and safe in her bed.

Her door burst open with a loud bang. Awake at once, she groped for a light or a weapon, but her search was useless in the complete darkness. Steps hurried toward her bed and a familiar vice-like hand gripped her arm: it was Draco. Without a word, he pulled her out of bed.

"Draco? Draco, where were you today?" He was silent, marching her toward the door. "Wait, I'm not dressed. Just let me grab a robe, please." She reached toward her vanity, but Draco yanked her back toward him and the door. "What the hell is your problem?" she yelled, yanking back. She could do nothing to halt his forward progress; already they were in the hall. They passed a window and his face caught the starlight. His face was severe and his eyes were wide. Hermione had never seen him so frightened.

Her heart stilled and she fought to keep the panic out of her voice. "Draco, where are you taking me? Where are we going?" He dragged her along as if she weighed nothing. She could feel the tension in his arms and see it in the muscles of his neck and face. She pulled backward again, trying to slow his progress, but he was a machine, unstoppable, moving forward tirelessly.

"Let me go!" she shouted. "Let… Me… Go!" She charged at him suddenly, hoping her momentum would throw him off-balance. Draco stumbled. She twisted around, managed to break his grip on her wrist, and turned to run, her bare feet finding ample purchase on the marble floors. She could hear him following her and toppled an end-table over behind her to slow him down. A vase shattered and he cursed under his breath.

The diversion did little. He caught up to her in a few steps and tried to grab her again. She parried his attempts, one after the other, until his face was contorted into a deep snarl. "Don't make this harder than it already it, Hermione!" She could barely breathe, much less respond, and the distraction of listening was enough to break her concentration. He broke through her defenses, snatched her arm, and she found herself being dragged one more. Her shin hit the corner of the toppled table and she fell amongst the shattered porcelain, somehow avoiding all of the sharp edges. He dragged her for a few yards. Hermione would have risen, but he was moving too quickly. He stopped and looked down at her, his grey eyes shining maniacally in the low light.

"Up," he hissed, teeth bared. "_Now_." His tone nearly stopped her heart. In that moment, Draco ceased to be himself. In the faint light streaming through the large windows, he seemed to transform. His mouth curled into a sneer and she could see the hate and agitation swirling in his eyes. He was primal, animalistic. She stopped fighting; it was no use. Right now, Hermione was at his disposal.

With wide brown eyes and a clenched jaw, Hermione stood and walked with him through the Keep, trying not to stumble as he steered her none-too-gently through the familiar surroundings. Down the main staircase, through the foyer, into an unfamiliar hallway, and down a small set of stairs to a thick stone wall. Draco tapped it once with his wand. A small, ugly room appeared, furnished with a small square table and three chairs. There were a few painted landscapes upon the walls and a mirror on one side of the door. He shoved her inside. The wall closed behind them.

"Listen to me, Hermione," he said urgently, turning so that they were eye to eye. "I don't have much time. I cannot tell you where you are going yet, but I will tell you that you are ready. You will need to use all of your skills – everything that you've learned here – if you want to survive."

"What do you mean?" she whispered to him, her voice thick with worry. "What do you –" But the words died on her tongue as Draco silenced her. Hermione shut her open mouth and glared at him, tears filling her eyes. She hated being silenced; it was one of the worst indignities she had to suffer. She lifted her hand to slap him, but Draco conjured ropes which wound themselves around her wrists.

"You have to continue to be strong, Hermione." The pads of his thumbs brushed away the tears which had fallen from her eyes. "You've done well so far. I'm very proud of you." He planted a kiss upon her forehead, his lips lingering for longer than she expected. She took a deep, shuddering breath. The kiss calmed her and flooded her body with warmth. She felt betrayed by her own physiology.

He led her to the chair and bade her to sit. He took a seat beside her, but was back on his feet in a moment as the wall they came through dissolved again. A tall, very slim man entered. He had thin, dirty blond hair which was cut short and clever brown eyes. He looked vaguely uncomfortable for a moment, as if he was accustomed to being alone, but covered his unease quickly with a small smile and an extended hand.

"Malfoy, it's good to see you again so soon."

"How are you this evening, Nott?" Draco said, taking his hand. If Hermione were allowed, she would have gasped. The man was Theodore Nott. He had to be. What was he doing here?

"Ready to talk business," Nott replied, gesturing to the table.

Draco nodded. "Would you like anything? A drink, perhaps? I've acquired a very fine bottle of Ogden's…"

Nott shook his head. "I'm due back soon – we need her to be ready before dawn." They both sat down; Hermione could hardly keep from staring at Nott, hoping his eyes would give something away. He glanced at her and she read curiosity in his expression. "She's silenced," he noted, "and bound. Is this… necessary?"

Draco had the nerve to laugh, his manner suddenly relaxed. "You remember Granger, Theo." Nott's eyes widened. Had he not recognized her? "Never could keep her mouth shut, even if it was for her own good."

Nott shrugged noncommittally. "You would know better than I. But the ropes?"

It was Draco's turn to shrug. "Precautionary. So what are you looking for?"

"Nothing special. Housework, maybe some cooking. One of the seven is ill – he won't last more than a year – and we're keen to replace him with minimal down-time."

"Well, Granger is sane and sound. I'm sure she'll do fine."

"We'll see. Stand up." Nott addressed Hermione and she glared at him in reply. His large forehead furrowed. "You can stand on your own or I can make you stand. It's your choice." She hesitated for a moment longer, then stood. If living with Draco had taught her anything, it was to pick her battles. This was one she could afford to lose.

Nott circled her like a lanky vulture. "She's not as thin as I expected," he remarked off-handedly. "Where was she before this?"

"Azkaban."

Nott repeated the word, sounding a little bit awed. "How you've managed to mend that damage is beyond me, but you've done a fine job of it. She looks strong. Sane, too, you said?"

Draco nodded. "Will lecture your ears off if given the chance. Has an answer to everything."

"The more things change, the more they stay the same." Nott's voice was quiet and low, like he was half talking to himself. "When can I take her?" he asked after a moment.

"Tonight, if you'd like. I just need five minutes with her before you go."

Nott threw him a sideways glance, and with it, a silent question. Draco's mouth was set in a grim line and his eyes were like granite. What would have taken Hermione a paragraph to understand was communicated quickly and clearly between the two Slytherins. It would be impertinent of Nott to inquire further and, if he did, he would not receive an answer.

"Five minutes," Nott said and exited.

Draco waited until the door was closed then turned to Hermione. "I'm going to take your gag out, but you have to promise me not to scream. Will you do that for me?" Hermione nodded. He searched her eyes for a moment before he said, "Good." He removed it and put his fingers over her mouth before she could start to speak. "You're going to the Dark Lord's castle to work as a servant. Most of his servants are Muggles; there are very few Muggleborns. You'll do mostly cleaning, but there are possibilities for advancement to the laundry or kitchens. Past that, I don't know."

It was automatic. Her right hand flew from her side and struck him across the face. The left followed suit immediately. Her right was about to go for seconds when Draco grasped her wrist tightly.

"Are you quite through?" he asked coldly.

"How dare you do this to me again?" she spat, her eyes flashing with cold fury. "How many times will you give me over to Vol-" Draco squeezed her wrist tightly. "You-Know-Who?" she corrected icily. "Wasn't once enough?" Draco did not have a response to this, but he did look ashamed. It was hardly good enough. "Why?" she hissed after a short moment. "Why are you doing this to me?"

His reply was immediate. "Because we need you to."

Hermione lifted her chin and met his gaze, her brow furrowed. "Is this about Resilience?" she asked shrewdly. Draco's eyes widened very slightly; she had her answer. "This is what you took me from Brannon's for, isn't it? You saved me from one monster just to damn me to another." She gave him a disgusted look, her lip curling. "Well you can let them know that I refuse." Draco's eyes widened again and his eyebrows arched. "The last time I tried to help you ended in absolute misery and I'm not keen to try it again. I'm done with your games."

"Then I won't ask you to play them," Draco said softly. "Forget about Resilience. What you need to do is be yourself. Use your head. Use what I've taught you. Stay alert. I know you'll be fine."

"At You-Know-Who's mansion?" she hissed skeptically. "That's likely."

"It's just another place. And he knows you're alive. If he wanted you dead, he would have killed you already. Locating you would not have been difficult."

"How comforting," she deadpanned. Hermione was furious, but also completely unsurprised. It all made sense now. Hadn't he told her that he had not changed? Expressed remorse over what he had done to her? He had apologized for his latest transgression before it had even been committed. If she had actually _listened_ to him, she could have figured all this out days ago. She was as angry at herself as she was at him.

"You're ready for this, Hermione," Draco said, emphasizing each word. "You are _ready_." His eyes were alight with so much confidence that Hermione momentarily believed him. It must have showed in her eyes because Draco frowned and cupped her cheek. "I wish I had more time with you. It's too soon to say goodbye."

His grief reignited her anger. "You seem to be getting good at it," she snarled, removing herself from his touch. "Did you not have a choice this time, too?"

She watched with mingled apathy and terror as her statement cut Draco to his core. He shut his eyes tightly, his brow furrowed and his lips turned downward into a distinct, saddened frown. "This time, Hermione," he said hoarsely, as if forcing the words past his lips, "I did."

Hermione took a step away from him, her voice breathless in horror. "You're giving me up?"

Draco's ferocious look was as good as a shout. "I can't make you understand why I'm doing this, Hermione," he said between gritted teeth. "Maybe one day I will, but not today. I won't ask you to forgive me – not for this, not for anything. I don't deserve it. But I will ask you for your trust."

"You don't deserve that, either," she spat.

"I don't. But you have to believe in me, and believe in yourself."

"Why should I?" she hissed. "Why should I believe anything you say?"

Draco was silent for a long moment. It was unnerving but Hermione maintained eye contact. This could be the last time she saw his eyes, the color of a fathomless cloudy sky, shining with unshed tears. "You have no reason to," he whispered throatily, "but that's the point of faith: believing in something when there is no logical reason why you should. It's difficult but it's all I can ask. Don't lose faith in me. Don't lose hope." He checked his watch. "One more minute."

A thrill of adrenaline raced up Hermione's spine. One more minute. One more minute of safety and certainty. One more minute to be with Draco. She shuddered. Could she survive in Voldemort's mansion? Did she have a choice?

Utterly distracted and lost in thought, she offered no resistance as Draco pulled her into an embrace, wrapping his arms around her protectively. "I love you, Hermione," he whispered into her hair. "More than anything in the world."

Hermione felt the breath leave her in a great gasp. She pulled away from Draco and looked up at him, open mouthed. She must have misheard him. Must have. There was nothing else for it. There was…

His lips upon hers in a gentle, caressing kiss. Heat, searing and consuming. It was rage. It was lust. It was hatred. It was completion. It was everything she didn't want and everything she needed. It was Hogwarts. It was exploration. It was new and familiar. It was painful and soothing. It was Hermione's mind at war with her body and the former surrendering at once and entirely to the latter. It was their first and last kiss and when Draco pulled away, he looked tortured, anguished, and ready to die, but in his eyes Hermione saw joy.

"Goodbye," he whispered. He tore himself away from her and stalked quickly toward the door, as if he walked any slower it would just lead him back to her.

Nott entered not a second later. His eyes darted from Draco to Hermione, then back to Draco, and his nostrils flared, scenting for guilt. Draco was not to be cowed by it.

"She's all yours, Nott," he said cheerily, his eyes bright but devoid of tears. "I trust you can see yourself out? I have some business to attend to."

Nott shot him a muted skeptical look – what business need be done this late at night? – but nodded anyway. They shook hands and then Draco left. Hermione felt something inside of her burst open as his platinum hair and strong shoulders disappeared. Another torrent of scalding heat, fueled by heady indignation.

Draco loved her. After what he did to her? Her friends? Her family? The arrogance he must have to even consider… How dare he even think it? And she? Well, she couldn't… Not him, not ever again. How could she? It was easy and reassuring to agree with her brain and she would have carried on in a towering temper if something funny hadn't been happening to her heart. There was an aching, a burning, a desperate and fearsome combination of adoration and abhorrence that made her want to march upstairs, beat him to a bloody pulp, then melt into whatever embrace he would undoubtedly offer in return. She could have killed him. If she ever saw him again, she would. How dare he leave her like this: hanging on the precipice of a monumental confession with no possibility of closure for months, perhaps years?

"Ready to go then, Granger?" Nott's voice broke through her dumbstruck demeanor.

She was certainly not ready to go! She had a few choice words for that vile little ferret and damned if she wasn't going to have them! Hermione backed away from Nott, putting a few feet between them, tense and determined. At this point, self defense was instinctive and she raised her hands in a placating manner.

"You don't have to do this, Nott," she said, knowing it was a lie. Nott knew it too and grimaced. His hand strayed toward his wand holster.

"Despite what you may have heard of me, Granger," Nott said icily, "I am not an idiot. If Malfoy is to be believed, neither are you. So I'm going to pretend you didn't say that and we can start anew, if you'd like." He took a step toward her and Hermione took another back. His grimace faded and he spoke rather slowly. "I do not want to resort to violence, but I will if I must."

Hermione set her chin: right now, she wanted nothing more than a bit of violence. Nott nodded and withdrew his wand. She watched his eyes turn into marble. "_Crucio_," he hissed and Hermione… Did not feel like the skin was being shredded from her body. Did not feel like white-hot pokers were being driven beneath her fingernails. It was pain, yes, and made her instantly regret her wish for violence. It brought her to her knees, tearing a whimper from her throat and tears from her eyes, but it did not make her want to die. It was an unheard-of phenomenon: had she grown immune to it from her stay in Azkaban? Was it even possible?

But as she brought her hands up to clutch her head, the bracelet shifted on her wrist. It was unbelievably hot, so hot that she was sure her skin would be burning where it touched her. She screwed up her eyes and opened them just a crack. Her skin was unmarked. The bracelet looked a little brighter than usual, but otherwise no different. Then it clicked – Draco said it had been protection, the only protection he could give her. He must have charmed it when she wasn't paying attention, maybe on Christmas when she was asleep…

Nott intensified his attack and Hermione's train of thought ran off course. Though the bracelet may have lessened the effects of the Cruciatus Curse, it did not block them completely. She fell forward, so that her forearms rested upon the floor, and tried to breathe, though each breath was like inhaling fire. After what felt like a century, he released it.

Before Hermione could recover, Nott had moved behind her and grabbed her neck. Even though he was thin, his grip was like iron and she whimpered as his fingers dug into her flesh.

"Don't move," he grunted. He pressed his wand tip to the back of her neck and a sudden, searing pain shot through her body. She could not repress a scream and her body jerked itself away from the offense, throwing her forward.

"The damage is done, Granger. You're his now." He hefted her to her feet and spun her around so that her neck faced the mirror on the wall. He conjured another and held it before her face while gathering her hair and lifting it up. What she saw nearly made her faint.

From the opposite reflection, Hermione saw that she was tattooed. A black coiled snake with red slits for eyes adorned her neck, just at her hairline. Her eyes widened and her heart dropped. He was right. To the world, she was nothing more than property... _Voldemort's_ property.


	18. Ch 18: Orientation

**Orientation**

The sight of the coiled snake tattoo shocked Hermione into stillness, giving Nott all the opportunity he needed to grab her arm tightly and twist on the spot. Hermione had not Apparated in a very long time and still found the experience highly unpleasant. After an uncomfortable, interminable second, it was over. The feeling of compression disappeared and a sharp pain took its place. She cried out and her hand flew to her left shoulder. It was wet, warm and sticky and she did not have to see the crimson on her fingers to know that it was blood. She had been splinched. She cursed, pressing her palm to the wound. The pressure did not stymie the flow, however, and her blood spattered onto the stormy black granite of Voldemort's vestibule.

"Damn it all," Nott muttered. "You're bleeding all over the floor."

"And dirty blood at that," came a smooth, venom-laced voice from behind them. "The Dark Lord will have your head for this, Nott."

"Not if he doesn't find out about it, Orman," Nott spat and turned to glare at the man whose name stopped Hermione's heart cold. She heard his footsteps behind her, felt his eyes on her body, and could almost smell the perversity of his being. He sidled into her view and she repressed a disgusted shudder and hid her snarl, though she could not keep the hatred out of her eyes.

"Hermione," said Channing Orman, a slow smile curling his lips. "What a pleasure to see you again." His dull brown eyes flashed; Hermione remained expressionless. This seemed to irritate him and his smile turned into a grimace, all of his perfectly white teeth bared in disgust. "I'll take her from here, Nott. Clean up this mess before the Dark Lord sees. Maybe he'll spare your miserable little life, though Merlin knows you don't deserve it."

"Those weren't my orders, Orman. I'm to take-"

"I don't give a damn what your orders were," Channing interrupted sharply. "You've got different ones now. Give me the girl, clean up this mess, and mind your own business tonight. I have to show our new guest the run of things in her new _home_." Though he spoke to Nott, his eyes did not leave hers. As threatening as he sounded, his eyes were the seat of his mania, and she saw quite clearly in them what he planned to do to her. The idea nearly made her retch, but she would not have it. Not tonight. Not ever.

Satisfied with Nott's obedience, Orman grabbed her splinched shoulder and squeezed hard, steering her toward a plain stone hallway. She bit her tongue to stifle her cry of pain, unwilling to give him the satisfaction.

Nott's "_Scourgify_!"s faded away as they continued down the hallway and past a small wooden door. The hall was narrow, with room enough for two people abreast, at most. Orman walked directly behind her, his talon-like fingers massaging into her shoulder the entire time. She could feel them dig into her open flesh and find purchase, working themselves underneath the torn skin and muscle. This was pain. This was agony. This was torture in the worst way, as she felt her body coming apart on the inside. The tears were there but she would not let them fall, thanking Merlin, Circe and Draco that she had learned control.

"It's been, what? Two and a half years since we've last seen each other, Hermione?" She stayed silent. "Now, now," he reprimanded in a menacing tone, "none of that. I don't like when you're churlish. I want to hear that beautiful voice of yours, as swotty as you can sound sometimes. And surely you must have missed me. Perhaps you would grace me with a few kind words?"

Her controlled facade cracked. "Go to hell," she hissed between clenched teeth.

He chuckled and snaked his hand around her waist. "Always such a little firebrand! We'll see just how long that temper lasts…"

He wrenched his hands to the side and threw Hermione into the stone wall. She threw up her arm in time to keep her head from colliding with it. The rest of her body bore the impact well and she pushed away before he could pin her there. She turned around in time to see him close the short distance between them and grab for her hair.

Her instincts kicked in quickly. She parried his advances and eventually threw a poorly-aimed punch. He caught her fist and spun her around, finally pinning her. "You don't know what you do to me," Orman murmured into her ear, his rank breath making her gag. "Your wide, innocent eyes, your incorruptible mouth, that spirit which begs to be dominated…"

His hand fumbled at the waist of his trousers and Hermione lost her grip on reality. Her struggle became a fight for survival and one that she refused to lose. So with a yell, she yanked her arms out of his hands and pushed herself off the wall. The backward motion sent him flying into the other side. Her foot crashed down onto his own and she was about to knee him in the groin went she felt his wand tip under her chin.

"_Crucio_," he hissed. Delivered directly to her skull, the bracelet did very little to absorb the curse's effects. It felt like being cleaved in two and she almost sank to her knees in pain, but, as if through cotton, she heard Draco's voice in her head. _Use your training. Be strong_. Something surged within her, a white-hot presence, fueled by rage and hatred and a definite will to live. It exploded from her body, flooding the corridor with golden light.

The pain stopped suddenly. There was a loud snap and Orman screamed in rage. His wand had shattered. Inch-long pieces of wood littered the corridor floor. There was no trace of the core it had once contained. Hermione felt a rush of exhilaration: he would never do magic with it again and now, they were on equal footing.

Orman did not seem to realize the latter, however, and dove for Hermione with both hands outstretched. Quick as a flash, she drove the heel of her hand into his nose. It broke with a sickening crack and an explosion of bright red blood. He cried out in pain and Hermione felt a sadistic smile distort her lips as she kneed him in the groin. Gasping in pain, spitting blood and curses, Orman sank to the floor and could do nothing to protect himself as Hermione delivered her final blow. She kneeled next to him, grabbed his head in both hands and, with all of her strength, drove it onto the floor. There was a hollow clunk of skull on stone and a satisfying exhalation of a man becoming unconscious. For a moment, Hermione considered driving it into the stone again and again, until it was nothing more than pulp in her hands. It would have been exactly what he deserved, but the sight of her bloodied hands made her back away. She did not need that kind of stain on her soul.

Breathing hard, she stood and surveyed her work. Orman was temporarily incapacitated. She had no idea what would happen to her when he was found, but for now, she was safe. His wand had also been destroyed. That was most intriguing. That power she had felt, the light that had exploded out of her when she was most desperate for help… That must have been her magic! She felt a dizzying rush of triumph. Maybe since she conjured it once, she could do it again with greater ease. It was an encouraging sign and she was eager to experiment.

The dizzying rush of triumph turned quickly into a wave of nausea. Her shoulder was still bleeding. Her head pounded from the curse. If she did not sit down soon, she might faint, and if Orman woke before she did… She shuddered. It was too frightening to think.

She left the body and continued down the narrow hallway until she came to a wooden door. She raised her hand to knock, but it opened before she could by another Death Eater. Her mouth fell open: it was Costinov, the Resilience member who spoke in lightly accented Russian. He ignored her look of surprise. "Where is Nott?" he asked.

"You…" she whispered. "What are you doing here?"

Costinov scowled, his dark features twisting unpleasantly. "Where is Nott?" he repeated.

"In the foyer," she said breathlessly, "cleaning up the mess he made."

"Then who escorted you down here?"

"Orman, but he had a more urgent matter to attend to." The lie came effortlessly; she hoped it would be good enough to prevent another question. There was a long moment of silence. Hermione could barely draw breath.

"You are not supposed to be left unattended." He glared at her, like it was her fault she was without an escort. Well, it was, of course, but he could not have known that. "Get inside." He grabbed her arm and pulled her through the doorway carelessly. It shut with a slam. "You're covered in blood."

Hermione looked down at herself. Not only was her left arm completely drenched, but the front of her nightclothes was heavily spattered. "My shoulder…" she said lamely. She knew that the wound – though it was sizable – could not have been responsible for that much mess. Costinov seemed to know it too, but let the detail slide. He reached toward her. Instinctively, Hermione flinched away. "I'm not going to hurt you," he said gruffly. "I need to heal it." The pain, dizziness, and nausea were getting worse, but Hermione gave him a questioning look. He shrugged. "The Dark Lord has no use for the crippled."

He reached for her again and Hermione held herself still. Costinov pressed his wand into her wound. Hermione winced as a soft yellow light, whose warmth bordered on uncomfortable, knitted her muscle and her skin back together. She prodded it with her fingers; it was still quite tender. She rotated it experimentally, but Costinov grabbed her arm before she could achieve a full rotation.

"You'll want to wait a day or two," he said. "Now hold still." She obeyed again and he launched a few "_Scourgify_"s at her. The blood disappeared and Hermione was relieved to see her own skin again. Once Costinov was satisfied with her state, he beckoned her. "Follow me."

He led her down a staircase to a wood-floored hallway lined with small doors. He stopped at the last one on the left. With a wave of his wand, it opened, revealing a tiny room. To call it modestly furnished would be an exaggeration. There was a small cot, two shelves – upon one of which sat a thin towel, the other a drab, grey robe – and a worn curtain which hid a toilet and a barely functional shower. There were no windows. The room was cold, dank, and musty, but Hermione couldn't figure out if the smell came from disuse or the remnants of a recently-vacated occupant.

"These used to be the cellars," Costinov explained, "but the Dark Lord had them renovated. They are now the servant's quarters."

Hermione took a seat on the cot as he spoke. It crinkled underneath her weight – was it made of straw? She put her hand to the mattress. It was.

"Your duties are simple: do what you are ordered, exactly and promptly. Do this and you stay alive. Failure will result in your death, which I can assure you will be most unpleasant."

Out of the corner of her eye, something moved. It was quick and small, scuttling across the floor at the edge of the wall. Then, something bigger appeared from the corner, chasing after the smaller object. Costinov followed her gaze and shot two fast Killing Curses at the figures and vanished them. She looked up at him, horrified.

"Mice and roaches," he said nonchalantly. "Spiders, too. You'll become accustomed to them soon enough." She drew her feet up from the floor at his words, suddenly very wary of her surroundings.

"You will be woken promptly at five a.m. each morning. You will assemble outside your door, where you will receive your orders. There will be no lateness and no excuses. Understood?" "Yes," she said quickly. "Yes, sir."

He nodded sharply. "Usually, I am supposed to teach you who's boss. Pull out some hair, break a few bones." Hermione blanched, but he continued. "But as you were covered in blood and look like death on two feet, I think I'll abstain." Hermione looked at him with confusion for the second time that night. "I'm sure your experiences with men like me are none too pleasant," he said in slightly-chiding tone, "but not all of us are monsters." He cuffed her gently on the cheek and took his leave, abandoning Hermione in the dark and strange room.

She sat there until she heard a door slam. The first thing she did was strip off her clothes and shower. The hot water tap didn't work, but Hermione didn't care. Though Costinov had cleaned her with his wand, she still felt dirty, contaminated by Orman's dirty blood. She shivered under the deluge of cold water, shivering and scraping at her skin until it was rubbed raw. Then she turned off the tap and reached for the towel, which barely had enough fibers left to dry her.

She grimaced as she put her clothes back on, experiencing that same unclean feeling. Maybe she would wash them tomorrow when they would have time to dry properly. Then she lay on the lumpy cot, covered herself with its scratchy wool blanket and closed her eyes. For a fleeting moment, she thought her first night would be a quiet one.

Merlin, was she wrong.

The servants' quarters were located directly next to the dungeons. Although the stone walls were thick, they were not impenetrable to the screams of the mercilessly tortured. Her room must have abutted one Voldemort's favorite chambers; she heard the screams all night. The torturer would laugh maniacally, rephrase his question, and cast another curse when his detainee answered incorrectly. She did not get a minute of sleep, even when the torture ceased. The screams seemed to reverberate in her ears.

At five a.m., a man pounded on her door, yelling for her to "Get up, now!" She did not need telling twice. Pausing only to put on the robe and a pair of house shoes provided for her, Hermione left her room and stood at attention in front of her door, daring a quick glimpse around the hall at the other occupants.

Across from her was a tall, older man, maybe in his mid sixties. His skin was pallid and sagging; giving him the air of a portly gent who had lost a great deal of weight too quickly. His hair was thin across the top and a sooty gray color, as was the stubble that inconsistently speckled his chin and jowls. He had thin lips and watery blue eyes. He caught her gaze and Hermione saw a brief flash of self-importance there, as if he was not used to being looked at with such plain curiosity, but it was gone as quickly as it came. She noticed, too, the troubled, wheezing breaths he drew, punctuated by a few strong, hacking coughs. He covered his mouth with his hands and made to wipe them on his trousers. Before he could, however, Hermione saw that all-too-familiar crimson sheen. Her eyes widened and she caught his gaze again. His expression now was at once sad and defiant. Obviously, his condition was a secret, or at least not mentioned. Hermione nodded - she wouldn't tell anyone - and he sent her a grateful smile.

To his left stood a woman who was his complete opposite. Petite and robust, she looked to be around fifty. Her hair was dark brown and fell into tight ringlets that shone with grease. Most of it, thankfully, was hidden behind a faded red bandana which probably had not been washed since it was tied. She had beady brown eyes with the same air of pride and lost power she had seen in the man, though she seemed much more reluctantly than he to let it go. She shot Hermione a severe look, her mouth downturned so much that Hermione wondered if she could smile at all. Her overall mien was so grim that Hermione decided that this was a woman who was not to be crossed.

Across from the woman – to Hermione's right – was a nervous looking boy in his late teens. He had brown hair, rosy cheeks, and blue eyes, but the most noticeable feature was his throat. It was terribly scarred, like he had been mauled by a dog, or more likely a bear. He shot her a furtive, curious glance out of the corner of his eyes but, when he noticed her gaze, dropped them down to the floor again. He fidgeted constantly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other, twiddling his fingers, twirling his finger in a thinner patch of hair.

She craned her head to look further down the hall, but the man across from her hissed and she stood at attention once more. It was not a moment too soon, either, because Costinov opened the door and strolled down the hallway with a roll of parchment. He spoke quietly as he doled out the day's assignments. Hermione couldn't hear anyone's names except for the three around her.

"Alexander," he addressed Hermione's neighbor. The boy flinched at the direct address. "Greenhouse today. All the way through. Wash the windows twice. Prune, water and weed the plants. Take care around the Venomous Tentacula. Richard?" The paunchy man with the grey hair perked up. "You're with him. Kitchen, as usual, Marsha." The woman nodded curtly and continued to glare as Costinov turned to Hermione.

Hermione did not know what to expect when she met his eyes. A hint of pity, perhaps? A kind look? A small nod of recognition? All she got, however, was a stern stare and an order. "Cleaning. Grand Foyer, piano room, and study. Stick with Denise – the girl with the blonde hair." Hermione looked down the hall to where the Death Eater was pointing and recognized her companion at once. She had a snub nose and narrowed blue eyes. She and her straw-colored hair looked none-too-happy to be stuck with Hermione for the day, but she supposed that was the way it would be for a while.

Costinov stalked down the hall without another word and the servants filed out behind him, also silent. They traveled up the stairs, through the hallway where Hermione had fought Channing – the bloodstains had all been removed, thankfully – and finally through a back passage which brought the group to the kitchen. The floors were a dark wood and the counters were burgundy laminate. It was composed of both a cooking and dining space but seemed too small to fit either very comfortably. Its appliances were modern though thoroughly used. Eight worn chairs stood haphazardly around a scrubbed wooden table. Hermione took the first seat she could and steeled herself. From now on, she had to cease being Hermione. She had to be the woman Draco had trained her to be: calculating and controlled, emotionless and, above all, resilient.

Marsha set a bowl of fruit at the center of the table as well as a pitcher of orange juice and seven glasses. She watched as the other selected their breakfast – apples, plums, peaches, and grapes. Richard poured and distributed the juice. Hermione selected an apple but did not eat it. Denise looked at her coldly.

"You might want to eat," she suggested bitterly, "considering that this is all you'll get until noon. From the looks of it, though, you're used to something much more extravagant."

Hermione sat up a bit straighter and looked Denise straight in the eyes, attempting to make her stare cold and piercing. Denise lifted her chin a little higher in response, obviously not to be intimidated that easily, and Hermione felt a tentative current of understanding pass between them.

"Don't mind Denise," Richard said, breaking the nearly awkward silence. "She just doesn't want the competition." He glanced at a man who was almost twenty years old – around the same age as Denise and herself – sitting on Hermione's left. He had shaggy brown hair, blue eyes, and a rather pretty face for a man. Suddenly, it clicked.

"I'm not here to compete with you," she said firmly. "I have enough problems." The tension in the room dissipated as everyone smiled except for Marsha, who looked like she had swallowed a lemon.

"I'm Richard Tykes," he held out a hand for her to shake. "Ex-treasurer for the Ministry of Magic. Pureblood. Marsha Scrimgeour," he pointed to the woman now filling a pot up with tap water, "Pureblood. Widow to the late Rufus Scrimgeour. That name should be familiar to you. There's Anita Wescott." He gestured to a petite, brown-haired woman with striking hazel eyes and an angular face. "She's a half-blood, part of the rebellion. The man sitting next to her is named Leonard. We don't know anything about him. Just showed up one day – memory completely erased." Hermione looked at a tall black man with bright eyes and a wide, comfortable smile. "We just assume he was someone important or dangerous, like the rest of us. Now let's see here…" He looked around the table to see who he had yet to introduce. "Denise McCloud," he pointed to the blonde girl, "first and only daughter of the President of the United States. Michael and Alexander here," he gestured to the older looking man and his younger brother, "I'm sure you know. The last three are Muggle, of course."

Hermione stared at Michael and Alexander for a little longer than was polite. She had seen them somewhere before, she knew. But where? Maybe when she was younger? On the television? Richard cleared his throat and Hermione flushed.

"Hermione Granger," she said hurriedly. "Harry Potter's best friend. Muggle-born." She need not have continued past her name, however, as the witches and wizards in the group gasped and gaped.

"It can't be..." whispered Anita. "We all thought you were dead."

Hermione smiled wanly: Anita did not know how very close that was to true. "Bad source," she said in reply. "I'm the only one left."

"Makes sense, though," said Marsha tersely. "He _would_ want her."

"Why would he - ouch!" The tattoo on the back of her neck seared with heat. She dropped her half-eaten apple to the table in surprise. The others didn't seem to be affected at all except to rise almost simultaneously and start to disperse from the kitchen.

"We'll talk more later, Hermione," said Richard. "Denise, take care of her today." He left with a fit of coughing. Denise scowled and grabbed Hermione's arm, taking her out of the kitchen.

"You'll get used to that soon," said Denise, heading toward a closet and fetching cleaning supplies.

Hermione rubbed the back of her neck, wincing. "What is it?"

"It's You-Know-Who's little way of reminding us who we are, what we do, and when we're supposed to do it." She must have read the confusion on Hermione's face because she clarified. "It's a communication system. When it grows hot, that's a signal that whatever you're presently doing needs to be stopped. Sometimes it means get to work, like in this case. Other times it means leave the room. Or it can be a summons from You-Know-Who himself."

"How am I supposed to know?" Hermione asked.

"That's the trick, isn't it?" The blonde girl glowered. "Usually we're told, but if we're not? Well, let's just say that if it's not interpreted correctly the first time, you can be sure that someone will be there soon to correct it for you. Mine's on my ankle." She hoisted her robe a few inches and flashed Hermione the inside of her right ankle, which bore the familiar coiled snake insignia. "Pain's not as bad there. But the neck… That must really smart."

They reached the Grand Foyer quickly and waiting for them was a bucket filled with soapy water, a broom, a mop, a few soft cloths, polish, and several coarse brushes. Denise thrust a rag and a bottle of cleaner into Hermione's hands. "We'll start with the brass – all the doorknobs and light fixtures. Then all of the wall we can reach and the floor."

After watching Denise do a few knobs, Hermione moved to the other side of the room to work so that they could meet in the middle. "Are there any house-elves here?" she asked.

"Hush," the blonde girl hissed, "these rooms are watched, except for the kitchen and the cellar. And yes, there are, but they keep out of sight."

"Then why do they have us do the cleaning? It seems silly to use Muggles when elves would be much more efficient."

Denise glared at her. "Appearances. Utter subjugation of the _lower class_ sets an example, scares people. We'll talk more later. Now shut up and clean."

Hermione did, though reluctantly, and debated the utility of this strategy until midday, when they took ten minutes for lunch. Marsha had fresh sandwiches and tall, cool glasses of water ready for all and everyone took their seats to eat and converse. Today's discussion, and what would turn out to be several subsequent lunches and dinners, was devoted to familiarizing Hermione with life at what was simply called Le Château: a strange name, Hermione thought, as they were still in Britain.

Their days were strictly scheduled. They woke at five a.m. to receive orders. Breakfast was finished in five minutes and then they worked either separately or in small teams until noon. After lunch, they returned back to their assigned work, unless they were given new orders. Dinner was served at six thirty and lasted for twenty minutes. Then everyone except for Richard, who took inventory each night, headed down to the dungeons. At nine p.m., someone would fetch them and lock them in their cells for the night. They had thirty minutes of leisure time to shower or wash their clothes, then the lights were extinguished for the evening.

Hermione's work with Denise was easily the most grueling in the castle. Cleaning required bending, lifting, carrying, pushing, pulling, straining, reaching and other contortions she did not know her body was even capable of. They were constantly moving so that by the end of the day, Hermione barely had enough energy left to shower and wash her robes. However, the job did have its perks: within three weeks, Hermione knew the mansion's layout by heart.

Le Château was significantly larger than a château ought to be, resembling a miniature Hogwarts but with far less whimsy. It had a grand and impressively decorated entrance hall. The furniture was made of the softest dragon hide Hermione had ever felt and was so plush that she imagined falling asleep on it would be like sleeping on a fluffy cloud. Murals and tapestries lined the halls and guarded the staircases. Above each doorway was a black, coiled snake upon a crimson banner.

The first floor was simple enough to navigate, with a main vestibule for receiving guests and an east and west wing for Voldemort's live-in Death Eaters. Two kitchens – a small one for the servants and a larger, more elegant one for the house-elves – a large dining hall, and a small but opulent conference room completed the first floor. From there, one could either go down or up. Down was where the servants' quarters and the dungeons were located.

Hermione's first trip into the dungeons was one she would never forget, dredging up memories of Azkaban that often left her shaking and short of breath. The dungeons were freezing cold, coated with all manner of filth, and utterly terrifying. Everything was stone save for the thick iron bars that lined the cell walls. There were no windows but a cold draft somehow snaked its way inside and sent a chill deep into Hermione's bones. She was half-surprised not to see Dementors lurking around every corner.

Of course, that chill was nothing compared to the revulsion that crawled down her spine when they got to work. Each of them took a room, armed with a bin and a short, flattened metal scraper. Then they got down on their hands and knees to scrape up the grimy floors. The first cell Hermione cleaned had not had an occupant in recently, so the most she needed to do was chuck down some fresh straw. She finished quickly and was directed down the hall by Denise to the end cell. It was the one which abutted her room.

The floor was coated with a one-inch thick mass of what looked like red gelatin. The faint candlelight made it glisten, catching the bits of hair, fingernail and tooth embedded in the gore. She gasped in horror, which was the worst possible reaction. The stench of it permeated her lungs, assaulting her senses. It was overwhelming. She retched and her vomit hit the jelly-like mass with a sick squelching.

"You'll learn not to do that soon," Denise shouted from three cells down, her voice soured with haughty amusement. "Now you have to clean up blood _and_ vomit."

"Happens to us all, Hermione," came Leonard's deep, comforting voice from across the hall. "It will get better. Just work as quickly as you can and try not to think."

Shaking, Hermione drew her hand across her mouth to wipe away the bile. Try not to think… Right. Try not to imagine her own cell in Azkaban. Try not to imagine the corner which held her own mess, the stench that came from it, pungent and vile, insulting, demeaning. Try not to remember the times she was tortured, when she bled and lost pieces of herself in the pain, when her own flesh and blood congealed in the frigid air. It was easier said than done. She was the last to finish, frequently stopping to retch into the bucket. That single visit was enough for her to develop a healthy fear of those dungeons. Whenever she heard a nasty bit of torture the night before, she would absolutely dread the trip. The stain and the stench never really left her hands, it seemed.

The dungeons were securely hidden from wandering eyes. The pride of the mansion was located where the light could reach. The second and third floors were for Voldemort's closest advisors – people like Bellatrix and Channing Orman, both of whose rooms Hermione had cleaned. The fourth floor was Voldemort's and his alone. No one was allowed on this floor, though rumors abounded. Some said it was one large chamber filled with all the Dark Objects one could imagine. Others said it was a labyrinth of sealed rooms and deadly traps that only Voldemort himself could navigate. All they knew for certain was the penalty of death that awaited anyone who cared to have a visit.

Life marched on for one month, two months, four months. It was easy enough to stay out of trouble, but a consistent thorn in her side was none other than Channing Orman. He was not pleased about her stunt in the cellar and had taken to stalking and ambushing her when she worked alone in the castle.

He could not do much more than talk, however. Wand sales were strictly regulated and the destruction of one was considered a crime. When Orman requested a new one be made, the inevitable questions were asked. When he was forced to answer them truthfully, the news that it had been broken by a servant girl – a Mudblood, no less – spread throughout the castle. He was a laughingstock within the day. Voldemort refused his right to a wand and, in an interesting twist, forbade him from laying as much as a finger on Hermione.

She reveled in his humiliation, but soon regretted celebrating so soon. The dishonor made Orman even more hateful. He spoke of her blood as if it were wine to be spilled from her wrists, of her body like it was a temple to be desecrated. He sneered at the incompetence of Harry and Ron, laughed at the memory of her parents landing in the pit and being set aflame, jeered at her naivety for trusting Draco. She bit her lip while withstanding his insults. Eventually he would bore of her impassivity and leave. Then she would break down and, when she returned to the kitchen for dinner, she knew the others noticed her puffy red eyes and blotchy skin. It was a sign of their respect for her that they never inquired about it.

She had come to respect them as well. Not long after she arrived, dinner conversation shifted from education to personal information. They wanted to know all about her and she, them. Unsure of how much to reveal, Hermione persuaded them to tell their stories before she told her own, planning to embellish the tale as needed so as not to alienate herself. She soon found she need not have worried.

Richard Tykes had gone to Hogwarts - Hufflepuff - and, after graduation, got a job at the Ministry of Magic as an assistant. He had a sharp eye, which made him well suited to pushing papers. He was also good with numbers and, when he caught a discrepancy in the Magical Games and Sports budget, he uncovered an insider trading ring that lead all the way to the top of the department. "Ages ago," he said with a dismissing wave. "Ancient history. But it earned me a promotion and a significant pay raise." With hard work and diligence, he ended up becoming Treasurer for the Ministry and had worked under both Cornelius Fudge and Rufus Scrimgeour. "Of course, when Rufus was killed, that's when they got me. Even though I'm a pureblood, I refused to join them. He sent me here to make an example out of me. The rest you can figure out." He spread his hands in front of him in a rather helpless gesture, and then was seized by a coughing fit. Hermione saw more blood spatter his hands, even as he discreetly wiped it away. She did not try to meet his eyes.

Marsha Scrimgeour was next, but her story was very short. "Rufus was killed. Mathilde - my daughter - was killed. I'm here. An example," she spat, "just like Richard." Hermione felt a wave of pity for the woman; it was no wonder she always looked unhappy.

"I suppose I'm lucky my family is still alive, though it's not like I'll ever see them again," added Denise. As Voldemort expanded his empire to the United States, he took hostage the one person who would guarantee the country's cooperation: the current president's daughter. "I suppose I should be happy to be alive, too, but sometimes I just wish they would kill me. I hate being a pawn. I hate that my father is under this dictator's thumb, that's he's no more than a puppet himself." She sneered. "Land of the free, home of the brave. More like land of the oppressed, home of the frightened. I just wish..."

She made a frustrated noise and Hermione did not know just what she wished, but her helplessness and frustration was echoed in the story of Michael and Alexander, who were not only brothers, but royalty. Hermione gaped. That is where she had seen them! Muggle television! Michael and Alexander were members of the royal family, captured and held for the same reason as Denise. But they were more than just bargaining chips. "As I understand it, it's about blood," Michael said, "royalty is about as close to pureblooded as Muggles can get. And if _he_ can control non-magic purebloods, who can't he control?"

It was a very good point and Hermione looked to Alexander, to see if he had anything to add. The boy shook his head and Hermione shot Michael a questioning glance.

"His scars," Michael said, his voice tight with grief and anger. "I don't know what they did to him."

Anita had a tale similar to her own, or at least one with which she was intimately familiar. This is because Anita was a halfblood and very distantly related to the Weasley family. And like the Weasleys, Anita was a blood traitor. She supported Harry and the Order fully, refusing to join Voldemort even after he had gained power.

"I managed to lay low for a while," she explained, absentmindedly stirring her soup. "Lived underground. There were a whole lot of us – at least twenty – in a cave. It was cold and dark, but at least we were alive. When things started to die down a bit, we formulated a plan. We were sick of living like we were… We deserved better. A few of us still had our wands, so we started small. Our first act was to destroy one of his statues. It was a colossus – right in the middle of town, looking down on everyone. It was like he was keeping watch, always there…"

She shuddered and Leonard put a hand on her shoulder. "Well," she continued with a bracing breath, "just as we sent the first blasting spells, Death Eaters came out of nowhere. We had no idea how they knew what we were doing – caught us by total surprise. Thinking about it now, I'm sure there was a leak in our operation… Filthy bastard." Her blue eyes flared momentarily and a chill flew down Hermione's spine. Bastard indeed. "The rest is history. Most of us they murdered, some of us they caught. I was sent to work here."

At last, Hermione's turn to tell her tale arrived. She had been dreading this day. The memories were painful and she relived them often, but in snippets and flashes, never all at once. To construct a cohesive narrative would give them permanence, finality. But they had shared their pain with her; it was only fair to reciprocate. So she took a deep, shuddering breath and began. "It was the summer after my sixth year. Our headmaster, Professor Dumbledore, had been murdered and Draco Malfoy arrived…"

The epic took the better part of two weeks to complete. Her audience was impeccable: they gasped, laughed, yelled, and cried at all the right times. At the end of it all was silence until Anita asked a question.

"Why did he do it?"

Hermione shook her head. "I don't know. I've asked him so many times but the only thing he tells me is that he didn't have a choice. I'm assuming he was threatened, or that maybe his family was, but that doesn't mean…"

"That doesn't mean he didn't have a choice," Denise interrupted hotly. "Dumbledore gave him one and he didn't take it. The whole time he was with the Order, he had one. He ignored every avenue for redemption. He _chose_ to betray you. That's all."

Anita shot her a quelling look, but Hermione knew she was right. "He did," she said quietly. "I know it."

"But what about at the Keep?" Anita continued. "He loves you? How…"

Hermione shook her head again in response. She didn't know how he could love her. Worse, she didn't know how she could possibly feel about him. Could she love him? Could she hate him? Both seemed likely and, at the same time, impossible. It was too painful and confusing to think about, so she tried diligently not to.

There was another long moment of silence. "Well, I think there's more to his actions that meets the eye," said Leonard. "You'll get the truth from him one day, Hermione." He grasped her hand in a friendly, comforting way and, for a moment, she almost believed him.


	19. Ch 19: Discovery

**Discovery**

June arrived with a wave of almost unseasonably warm weather and a slight change in their daily routine. Costinov, flanked by a veritable platoon of Death Eaters, ushered them out of the front doors and into the sunshine. Hermione had never seen the outside of Le Château before and found it every bit as daunting as the inside. It was an intricate construction of dark brown stone, wrought iron, extravagantly carved pillars and ugly gargoyles that should have looked gauche, but instead looked intimidating. A forest that looked as old as time itself did nothing to lighten the structure's oppressiveness, but Hermione could see a few well-beaten walking paths that broke the solid wall of trunks. That gave her a little optimism. Large wings spread expansively to the east and west and were fronted by long patches of dark, loamy earth. The path leading up the front doors seemed at least a mile long and was also lined on either side with tilled soil. Flats upon flats of little green plants waited for them and, though Costinov need not have told them what they had to do, he did anyway.

"Plant," he said simply. "All this earth must be filled with flowers within the week. If you try to escape, we will kill you." He need not have threatened them, either, but that was rather commonplace.

The vitamin D deficiency from the dim candlelight of the mansion's halls was a sure recipe for a stubborn melancholy, but the bright sunshine dissolved frowns and put everyone in high spirits. Even Denise, who had a prickly temper on a good day, quietly laughed and joked with William. Alexander rolled his eyes at Hermione, who grinned at him and then looked to the pair once more. Denise caught her looking and gave her an uncharacteristic smile after a moment. Though they commonly worked together, Hermione got the feeling that Denise did not entirely trust her. Perhaps it still had something to do with William. Though, since Hermione had told her story, it should have been clear that another relationship was the last thing she could have wanted.

Denise's giggles started to attract attention. Richard hissed at them to get back to work. Coming from anyone else, this reprimand would have been taken as a scolding, but from Richard, it was different. He was very much a father figure to them all and the patriarch of their strange servant society. Disputes were common and, while rarely serious, he was the one who settled them. If someone was feeling particularly lonely or sad, he could be counted on for encouragement and comfort. Alexander seemed to a special favorite of his. Though the boy could not speak, Hermione felt they shared a bond of deeper understanding. Richard was a confidante, a good leader, and admired by all of them.

He was also dying. Hermione noticed it and was sure everyone else had too. He was losing weight and looked paler than usual. His breathing had always been labored, but lately his coughing fits were more frequent and more severe. Sometimes he would sit down and hack until he was red in the face and gasping for air. It sounded like he was drowning in his own fluids. Hermione's heart ached for him, but if he was in pain he never showed it. The sunshine and fresh air seemed to hearten him more than anyone else, and the effects lasted for the week after they had finished planting. His unfaltering strength and positivity gave them all the energy to soldier on, and yet, Hermione could not help but wonder how long he would last.

It was not long. On a Tuesday in mid-June, she and Richard had been assigned to the greenhouse to sweep, wash the windows, and weed. Richard pulled on a pair of thin dragon hide gloves and tossed the other pair to her. She looked at him expectantly. He gestured to half of the greenhouse, then the other half, and mimed weeding. She pointed at herself and the left side of the greenhouse. They both knew that at the far corner on the left side was a specially shaded patch of earth that housed a rather aggressive Devil's Snare, which was less likely to prey on Hermione than Richard. He nodded and Hermione smiled. With that, they got to work.

The work was pleasant. Hermione had always enjoyed Herbology and found working in the soil soothing. She rolled up the sleeves of her robe and tied her hair back with a piece of string only to feel a dampness there that was not due to the humidity.

"Hermione." Channing Orman breathed her name on the back of her neck and a chill ran through her despite the warm sunshine. "My own personal penance. Do you thank the Dark Lord every day for that order he gave, hm? I can't touch you now, don't dare to. He'll know, he'll know... The Dark Lord always knows." He chuckled, the sound deep and sinister, a mockery of a laugh. She tried to keep her pulse and breathing steady, but Orman's presence filled her with dread. She cleared her mind as best she could and moved onto the next planter, tossing the weeds she found into a small bucket at her feet as accurately as she could without bending over.

"Or do you wish I could touch you, my little Mudblooded pet? Did you like when my fingers dug into your flesh? Do you want to feel my teeth on your lips? On your breasts? On your-"

His words were drowned out by Richard, whose lungs did not appreciate the extra work of obtaining oxygen from such humid air and had punished him by a violent coughing fit. Orman's face twisted into a snarl. "You're not alone." His words hung in the air for a moment and he sounded a little unsure. Then his snarl turned into a smile. Hermione's blood ran cold. "You're not alone!" He sounded triumphant. "Shall we visit your compatriot, Hermione? Shall we try to quiet him?"

He backed away from her slowly and though he did not touch her, Hermione had no choice but to follow him. She was scared witless. Her legs felt like pudding and her heart thudded an irregular tattoo within her chest. She knew what was going to happen. Orman was finally going to punish her for destroying his wand. He could not touch her, but he could touch Richard. He could not kill her, but he could kill him.

And that's what he did. It started with a blow to the man's back, which dropped him to the concrete floor. Then Orman kicked and kicked, each blow landing somewhere vital despite the protective position Richard had curled into. His stomach. His torso. Hermione thought she heard a crack as one or two of his ribs snapped. His back. Richard unfurled, arching with the pain. His face. White teeth shattered and blood arced away, spattering the green foliage with dark crimson spots. Then Orman got to his knees and, eyes never leaving Hermione's, beat Richard's face into a bloody pulp.

The poor man's wheezing screams did not last for long, but each one was a wrench that tore at Hermione's heart. Tears streamed from her eyes – there was no restraining them now – as she watched what Orman wished he could do to her. Finally, Richard's rasping, pain-filled breaths became shallow, bloody gurgles. Soon, mercifully soon, they stopped entirely.

Orman stood and approached Hermione, getting as close as he could to her without touching her. "Don't you wish I could touch you, my little Mudblood?" he whispered into her ear. With another throaty, perverse chuckle, he left.

Hermione sank to her knees beside what remained of Richard. Blood oozed from the mangled corpse, creating red rivulets across the greenhouse floor. The coppery, salty smell mixed unpleasantly with the heavy aroma of damn earth. Hermione felt sick to her stomach. She had done this. She reached out and touched his hair and forehead, blood-soaked but somehow unharmed, and wept.

Shortly, she heard the distinctive click-clack of well-made shoes approach the greenhouse. The door slid open and a man swore. Hands gripped the back of her arms and hauled her to her feet.

"Come on, Granger," he said softly. Hermione recognized his voice: it was Theodore Nott. "Back to work now. Go." He shoved her toward the opposite side of the greenhouse. Hermione took two steps and looked back at him. Nott was cursing under his breath and glaring at the body, frowning deeply.

"It's my fault," she whispered to him. "I didn't mean for it to happen. It should have been me."

He turned his glare to her. "Shut up," he snarled, "and get back to work. Quickly. Others are coming soon."

Hermione felt like maybe he did not understand. "It should have been me," she said again. "I was the one… I didn't mean…"

Nott was standing in front of her before she realized he had moved and, in another instant, had delivered a fierce backhanded blow to her cheek. She reeled, crying out in pain and surprise. He caught her arms before she could topple into a table and held her tightly, his fingers digging into skin.

"I do not care about your story, Granger, or your guilt," he hissed. "I know it was Orman – he's walking around with blood on his hands like it's a fucking trophy – and I know he wanted it to be you. But it's over now, done. You're still alive and, if you want to remain so, you will get back to those fucking plants!" He shoved her again, harder this time, and she staggered backward. She kept going this time, however. Back to her bucket. Back to her job.

By the time she had finished her tasks, Richard's body had been removed. The only evidence of previous trauma was an oddly shaped stain on the concrete floor and the lingering odor of death and copper. By the time she had arrived in the kitchen for dinner, she was ice and stone.

"Where's Richard?" asked Anita, looking up from her plate.

Hermione took her seat. "He's dead."

Her statement was met with complete silence, though she had the distinct feeling that something just shattered apart.

"What did you say?" It was Denise this time, her voice edged with steel. Hermione did not have the strength to repeat it.

Marsha's voice cracked like a whip through the kitchen. "How?"

"He was beaten."

"Cut the shit," Denise snapped.

Now Hermione looked at the faces around her. Anger. Confusion. Inexpressible sadness. Alexander cried openly and William draped a comforting arm around his brother's shoulders. Anita, Denise and Marsha stared at her with hard looks and Leonard looked uncertain and a little frightened, shooting wary glances at Anita.

How could she tell them the truth? How could she tell them that it was her fault? She had maimed Orman by destroying his only tool as a wizard and thus had made him even more dangerous to them all. If she had just let Orman have his way with her – whether it was to hurt, torture, or rape – Richard may still have been alive. Was it a fair trade, one life for another?

"Granger." The use of her surname broke Hermione out of her thoughts. Denise's mouth was turned into a deep frown.

"Orman," she said quietly. "We were working in the greenhouses and Orman came in. Richard starting coughing and Orman suggested we go… silence him."

"And you didn't think to help?" Hermione's head whipped around to look at Anita, whose face was suddenly livid. The question caught Hermione off guard. She had not thought anything; it happened too quickly. What if she had intervened? Would Orman have obeyed Voldemort's command and left her alone, or would he have finally killed her? Hermione suspected the latter. Again, the question: what was a single life – _her_ life – worth?

"I take that as a no," Denise said, misinterpreting Hermione's silence. The blonde sat back in her chair and glared. "Couldn't risk your neck for him, Granger?" she taunted. "He's not good enough to deserve your help? He's not Potter, obviously, but-"

"That's enough," Hermione snapped. "There was nothing I could do."

"Denise…" Leonard's voice held a low warning. She glared at him, daring him to scold her. Hermione knew what she was thinking. As intimidating as Leonard was, he was not Richard. A reprimand from him meant little.

"Denise is right," said Anita.

"Anita…" Leonard spoke again, but less harshly, and extended his hand toward hers. She drew away from him quickly.

"No, Leonard. She fought him once to save her own skin. Richard's just wasn't worth a repeat performance."

"You weren't there," Hermione said. The words felt hollow even as she spoke them, and she knew the rest of them felt it too. Were they right? It was true that she froze, couldn't move, couldn't even _think_, but she had beaten Orman once. What stopped her this time? Fear? Instinct? Self preservation? Probably it was a mixture of all, but it didn't seem like a good excuse. Orman had murdered Richard and she just stood by and watched. She had never felt more disgusted with herself.

"Richard was dying," said William quietly. Everyone looked at him. "He was _dying_," he repeated. "We all knew it. It was just a matter of time."

"So better he gets beaten to death than allowed to die naturally?" Hermione had never heard Denise yell at William before and the young man looked affronted.

"You know that's not what I meant, Denise," he said. "But Hermione's-"

"Oh, yes, take her side, William. What a surprise."

William scowled at her and was about to continue talking when Costinov appeared in the doorway. They all fell silent and looked at him expectantly. His face was impassive, maybe even a little angry.

"The old man is dead," he said. "His body has been burned and his remains disposed of. Granger, you will take his place."

Hermione felt the hostility in the room rise. "What?" she asked quietly.

"Manage the ledgers, take the inventory, keep the peace. You're exempt from cleaning the dungeons. Understand?"

She nodded, numb, and Costinov left with a scowl and a flurry of black robes.

Denise spoke first. "What the _fuck_ is that supposed to mean?" She slammed her hands on the table and rose to her feet. "How the _hell_ do you deserve to take Richard's place? You've been here for far less time than the rest of us, and you get _promoted_? You don't even know what you're doing!"

Even William looked confused. "I would have thought Marsha…"

"Don't you get me involved in this, boy," Marsha snapped. "Let the little bitch take the reins if she wants, but don't look to me for help," she said, directing the last bit at Hermione. Her anger was justified: now that Richard was gone, Marsha was the oldest of them and had served the château the longest.

"Maybe she's got a little deal worked out," Anita said, spite curling the corners of her lips.

The kitchen was plunged into tense silence. Hermione felt herself grow cold. "What is that supposed to mean?" she asked evenly.

"Oh, don't act so naïve. I've been watching you," she said with narrowed eyes. "The way you jump when he speaks, the way you act when you return from working a single shift. You think you hide it, but I see through you. The Russian," she spat. "Does he remind you of Brannon, Granger? Old habits must die hard."

Anita's mouth kept moving, but Hermione could not hear any sound. Control was forgotten, unimportant: she was fueled by rage and revenge. She jumped to her feet and launched herself across the table, her arms outstretched and her fingers curled into talons, but did not get far. Leonard had wrapped his arms around her shoulders and hauled her backward. Anita jumped to her feet on instinct, but William was quicker and held her back. Denise was quick to act on her behalf but was blocked by Alexander, who did nothing but stand in front of her, his cheeks still wet with tears. Marsha did not move a muscle, but clenched a large knife like it was a sword.

Then their tattoos burned. Everyone stilled.

Still livid, Hermione allowed a cold smile to distort her face. "Dungeons," she hissed. "Now." The three women glared and stalked past one by one, not making eye contact, but muttering curses below their breath. Hermione snarled at them. William and Leonard followed and looked apologetic but steadfast. She nodded at them: as furious as she was by the betrayal of trust, they had been right to restrain her. Alexander was last and hesitated for a moment before leaving the kitchen. Hermione's face softened. Richard's death would affect him most. He looked straight into her eyes and Hermione immediately understood how they had been so close.

"I'm sorry," she whispered to him, allowing grief to choke her words. "I never wanted…" She trailed off, threatening to dissolve into tears. Suddenly, she felt a pair of warm arms around her and in that instant, she let herself go. She embraced the young boy as she would a best friend, allowing him to comfort her like she did not deserve to be comforted. Then he was gone and Hermione clammed up again, lifting her chin and setting her mouth. She reached for the ledger that was kept in the pantry and sat down at the table to learn Richard's system and begin devising her own.

The next two days passed with only a semblance of normality. They were woken at the expected times, ate their food with quiet conversation, and performed their chores with dour faces and efficient hands. But it was obvious that everything had changed. Hermione was no longer included in mealtime conversations. Anita and Denise acted as if Hermione did not exist and Marsha sent severe and spiteful looks along with her plate of food. Leonard and William – who were keen to stay on Anita and Denise's good sides, respectively – were more understanding but no more willing to include her. It was only Alexander who did not make her feel like she was carrying an infectious disease and his company, silent as it was, soothed her.

Friday found her emotions still roiling about in her head like ingredients in a cauldron over a blazing fire. There was anger at Denise and Anita, pure hatred of Channing Orman, sorrow over Richard's death, and an overwhelming sense of guilt that she had done nothing to help him. It was dangerous and distracting, not having control over herself. She hoped ardently that it would not lead her into trouble and fought tooth and nail to calm herself.

She stared over the mansion's ledgers, seeing indecipherable figures wedged amongst squished rows and columns, but did not take the numbers in. She concentrated on cramming the thoughts into the trunk at the back of her mind. The scene of Richard's death replayed itself in her mind's eye, making the task impossible.

For half a second, she wished she had fought Orman, thinking it would have been better to just die rather than try to live through the guilt. But she knew it was a lie. She wished she could have helped Richard. She did. But the consequences would have been too dear. How many times had Draco said it? She had to survive. When had she begun to believe it? When had she become too concerned with her own life to not intercede on behalf of another's?

She twirled the quill between her fingers, willing her tears to recede. Draco. She had been so occupied at Le Château that she hardly had time to think about him. For the past three days, he had been at the forefront of her mind. His silver eyes begged her to be strong. His lips formed the words that she ached desperately to hear again but would not allow herself to believe. She relieved the memory, recalling with perfect clarity the simple statement of eternal devotion, and allowed herself to be momentarily lost in a warm, happy memory.

Suddenly, the temperature of the kitchen dropped and the memory evaporated like a snowflake upon flame. The air felt suddenly thicker, trapped in her lungs despite the hammering of her heart. The sound of a cloak to her right alerted her to the presence of another being, but a being that was not quite human. There could only be one being with such a descriptor.

"Hermione Granger," came Voldemort's rasping, high-pitched voice. "How lovely it is to see you again."

The blood drained from her face, but she felt strangely calm. The memories that had previously been gamboling about her mind immediately retreated into the trunk and, faster than she ever had before, Hermione brought up her mental wall, complete with fortifications. It was her only defense against Voldemort and the Legilimency that he would undoubtedly perform on her. It probably would not be enough to hold everything, but maybe some things – the important things – could remain hidden.

"My Lord," she murmured. She kept her eyes on the ledger.

"One traitor shall take the place of another. My, my, isn't the world full of dramatic irony?" Hermione said nothing, having never thought of it that way before. She supposed he was right.

"Can I get my Lord anything?" she offered.

His laugh was a hiss and sent shivers racing down her spine. "No, I merely came down to investigate the changes myself. I was away for a few days and Nott has just informed me of the incident on Tuesday in the greenhouse. Most unfortunate – Tykes was a model servant. Pity he was not more receptive of my message. He would have been quite the asset to my cabinet, whereas men like Orman…" Voldemort laughed again; Hermione was reminded of metal upon metal. "Brutes, of course, but even brutes have their uses."

She could see him out of her peripheral vision. His red, slitted eyes, narrowed and glaring, which would pierce right through her if given the chance. His skin was pale enough to distinguish the purple veins running beneath them. His face and head were completely hairless, almost scaly. The lack of humanity made Hermione's stomach churn; she felt the need to escape.

"My Lord, please excuse-"

"You will leave when I say you may leave, Mudblood," he spat. They hovered in tense silence for a second, then came his order, quiet and curious. "Look at me."

Every instinct, every cell, every molecule and every atom in her body told her to disobey. They screamed at her to run, to make excuses, to fight or faint, to do anything but what he wanted her to do. But the moment's hesitation caused by all of these warnings was enough for Voldemort. He pointed his wand at her and, without bothering to utter a word, forced her face toward his.

Their eyes met and the world around Hermione disappeared as she retreated inside her head. She felt his presence in her mind like a noxious gas, slowing slipping through her mind, making a thorough search. Most of what he saw was relatively unimportant: Richard's death, Orman's torture, Brannon's dungeon, Azkaban.

Then she saw the wall; she knew he saw it too. It collapsed with no more than a glancing blow, leaving the trunk exposed. Hermione knew it would open for him, concentrated all her efforts on keeping the information it contained about Draco hidden, and felt a rush of satisfaction mingled with sadness as memories of Harry and Ron flooded her consciousness. Memories of Brannon's dungeon. Brannon's library. Then a word, _one_ word, sent the world crashing down around her.

Resilience.

Her vision returned with a snap and in the same moment she flew through the air. Wood splintered around her a split-second before her body crashed against something large and immovable. Her breath whooshed from her in a great gasp and she fell to the floor, her mouth a perfect "o," struggling to fill her lungs. In another second, she was airborne and spinning. Colors whirled around her, turned into one brown-tinted blur and then she collided with another piece of furniture.

Suddenly, all she knew was pain. It rose to a boil within her and escaped in a hoarse, throat-ripping scream, primal, guttural, and sincere. It was the Cruciatus times twenty. Times one hundred. It was her family and friends dying. It was betrayal. It was deceit. It was one long, shattering note. Inhuman. Impossible.

Her grief made physical.

After an eternity, it was gone, but her body was still wracked with pain. Blood poured down the side of her face. Her right arm was broken. Her lungs were shredded. Her vision, blurred as it was, made out the hem of blackest robes at a distance and several other pairs of feet with their own black hems.

Her body stiffened and flew into the air again and it felt as if long pins had pushed themselves between her clavicles and shoulders, keeping her aloft in midair. The curse was lifted and Hermione cried out in pain as the stakes took her full weight.

Voldemort dug his wand into the tender flesh beneath her chin. The same unuttered curse as before ripped another drawn, piercing scream from her lungs and throat, and she writhed on her invisible supports, unable to bear the pain the movement caused her but unable to stop.

Another eternity had passed before the cursed was ended and Hermione was left sobbing and shaking in midair. She felt a curse lift her head up – her neck could no longer support the weight – and looked upon Lord Voldemort's face. There were no words that could capture his fury and so he said nothing, but the look in his eyes was as murderous as she had ever seen. In that moment, Hermione knew she was going to die.

"Please," she breathed, the words barely audible through the rasp of her breath and the force of her sobs. "The memory… Resilience. Please." With more willpower than she possessed, Hermione somehow drew up the memory of the Resilience meetings. Voldemort must have seen it flash across her eyes. He was in her head a moment later, watching them with her, then violating every sacred part of her mind to make sure he had seen them all.

When he withdrew from her memories, Hermione's strength evaporated and she went slack again, the invisible pins forcing themselves upward through her flesh.

Voldemort shouted a command to a nearby Death Eater but Hermione did not hear what it was. Suddenly, the spikes between her shoulder blades were gone and she dropped to the floor. Skull cracked against marble. Hermione's world became darkness.


	20. Ch 20: Making Contact

Author's Note: Hey all! I know, it's been too long. The next update should be quicker, though. Enjoy! :)

**Making Contact**

_Familiarity. That was what struck Hermione first. She had been here before, knew the bookcase-lined wall, the high panoramic windows, the dark leather couches, the luxurious Oriental rug. The smell of spice and old parchment sent synapses firing through her brain, relaying… Pleasure? Grief? Hatred? Home? She hardly knew. _

_Wrongness. That was what struck Hermione next. The comforting and familiar setting was no balm for the chill that coated the air and made all the little hairs on her arms and the back of her neck stand on end. The windows were not shuttered but they let in no light. In fact, they did not afford a view of anything. No trees, no forest, no ocean, no sunlight. It was all grey, steely and dour, as if someone had painted them over. She suddenly felt very trapped and very claustrophobic._

Consciousness returned with a jolt.

Cold. Hard. Rough.

Discomfort. Darkness.

Mold.

Blood.

Pain. _Agony_. Anguish such as she had never felt, soul-deep and infinite. It ebbed through her entirely, flowing and throbbing, sharp in some places and dull in others. It was especially severe in her right arm, which was broken, and her chest, where she knew a few ribs were cracked. They ground against one another every time she inhaled and her lungs burned on the exhale, even though her breaths were shallow.

Her head spun. She grit her teeth and focused, willing it to stop, willing her mind to sort the incoming sensations into patterns that made sense.

It took several minutes of slow, measured breathing. Certain aspects of her situation were too fresh to be forgotten: she had been beaten, almost to death, by Voldemort. The pain in her body told her that much. She was lying face down on a cold, rough surface. Her limbs were twisted at awkward angles and her joints, or what she could feel of them through the pain, were stiff. Moldy straw lay near to her face. There was the stench of dank must and decay; of feces and urine mingled with the coppery salt smell of old blood, of vomit.

Her brain recognized its first pattern. The dungeon. That was where she was. Then, a second pattern: she was not dead. Gratitude mixed awkwardly with dread. She was lucky she had not been killed. Too lucky. She felt like she was dying, true enough, but the pain in her lungs and the throbbing pulse in her head confirmed her continued existence. But why? What reason could Voldemort possibly have for allowing her to live? More torture?

Hermione nearly sobbed at the thought. She could not handle more pain, she was sure of it. Her body had its limits and had been pushed past them tonight. Any more would send her into insanity. But why, then? Why not just kill her and be done with it?

A third pattern: _Draco_. At this, Hermione did sob, the force of it contorting her body. Rushing, swooping misery raced through her veins and her brain collapsed upon itself, sending her into pain-free oblivion.

_Hermione approached the bookcase tentatively; the wrongness seemed to lessen as she approached. She ran her fingers over the familiar titles – "Moste Potente Potions," "1,000 Outlawed Hexes and Curses," "The Imperius Curse Explored." Where had she seen them? She closed her eyes and let her fingers wander, losing herself in the feel of worn leather. Then she reached a volume that was different from the rest. She opened her eyes and saw on a small, blood spattered book. The cover made of a material that she was at once familiar with and wary of. _

_A piece of the puzzle slipped into place. She was at the Dragon's Keep. This was Draco's study. She wondered why she had not realized it before. At the same time came another insight: she was not alone. A tremor ran through her. There was a presence in the room, a presence that was not quite human. She spun around slowly, searching. What was amiss? There was the couch where Draco had sat when she first arrived. There was the table where they had knelt and experienced the Pensieve together. In the corner was where Draco kept the cursed shallow basin. There was the desk... _

_Her startled gasp shattered the silence._

Her torso ached as that same gasp brought her to consciousness again. There was the same explosion of sensory input, but she was sensible enough to keep it in check this time, experiencing the sensations one by one. Her brain sorted them easily. The dungeon. The pain. Draco.

A scream. A scream so soul-piercing that Hermione thought it might have been an echo of the one wrought from her lips under torture. The noise was terrible and Hermione's skull throbbed, threatening to split apart at the sutures.

You think you can hide from Lord Voldemort?"

"No... No, my Lord." The voice was low and rasping, as if the man could barely draw breath. The quiet hiss of a spell; a moan of agony.

"Did you think you could hide your treachery? That you would never be discovered?" She had never heard fury before this, had never considered how angry a being that was less than human could become.

"No, my Lord!" There was a peal of Voldemort's high-pitched laughter, a sickening, squelching noise of something wet and heavy hitting the floor, and a bellow of horror mixed with pain. Instinct told her to move but the smallest shift in position would send her careening into unconsciousness again. But maybe if she held on... Maybe if she tried harder...

She lifted herself a few inches off the floor with her unbroken arm, whimpering with the effort it took. She inhaled as deeply as she could without puncturing a lung and, in a quick motion, twisted her hips. The attempt cost her more than she anticipated and she collapsed onto her back, losing consciousness a second time.

_Something sat at the desk. The red leather chair that should have been Draco's was turned so that it faced the windows. Its high back would have hidden Hermione had she sat in it, but the other thing was tall enough so that the crown of its head peeked above the dark burgundy leather. It was strangely shiny and bleached, at once like and unlike hair. An illusion, she told herself. A trick of the light. But in some mysterious, instinctual part of her being, she knew that to be a lie. _

_Morbid fascination continued to inch her forward, but her progress was waylaid by an irrepressible and ever-growing dread. What should have taken her seconds to do stretched into hours, then days, until the terror she felt was so severe that she could move forward no more. _

_Barely a yard separated her, the chair, and its occupant. Her breaths were shallow and shuddering. Her entire body quaked. She should run. Every _particle_ of her knew it. Flight meant survival. Only extinction could come from this confrontation. Whatever was in that chair was evil and she had to get away from it. For her life, for her sanity, she had to go. _

_"Hermione." _

_The thing in the chair spoke quietly, her name a breath on its lips. She froze as a hard lump of fear lodged itself in her throat. She could not speak. She could not move. All she could do was watch and listen as the nightmare played itself out. _

_"Hermione," the voice breathed again. "Are you happy now, my dearest? Are you pleased with what you've done? For so long, I've been watching over you and this..." The voice paused and chuckled. "This is how you repay me?" _

_Slowly, the chair moved. The figure in it rotated into view. _

_A corpse. A skeleton. A rotting, decomposed, maggot-ridden body. Another jolt of horrible familiarity. Draco. In a moment, he stood before her, the desk forgotten and insubstantial. "Are you happy now, my dearest? Are you pleased?" He reached out a hand toward her, chunks of flesh falling from it until there was only bone, and caressed her, tracing from the apple of her cheek to the tip of her chin. The bone upon her skin was a like broken taboo and if she had been able, she would have vomited. Draco's other skeletal hand grasped her neck and drew her close. Rancid breath washed over her nose and mouth as Draco's lips fell away, revealing a putrid, purple tongue behind yellow, broken teeth. His eyes were white and dull, lidless, foreign, haunting. _

_"Happy?" he hissed, teeth bared in a feral snarl. "Happy? Happy?" _

Hermione screamed in terror and woke suddenly to its fading echoes. Her body burned though she was drenched in cold sweat and shivering violently, nearly convulsing. Tears streamed from her eyes as the vision replayed itself and she let out a sound that was half sob, half scream.

"Hermione? Hermione!" came a voice from her left. The sound of her name silenced her sobs.

"Who's there?" Her voice was weak and hoarse. She did not sound like herself.

"Costinov," said the voice.

She gasped and, ignoring her injuries, she dragged herself toward his voice. She ran into a set of cold bars before she reached him. Throwing caution to the wind, she stuck her hand through, feeling for him. Her fingers caught on the hem of a warm but sodden cloak. She tried not to think about what it was wet with.

"Oh, I'm so sorry," she moaned, her fingers tightening around the fabric. Her head pounded with every word and her tongue felt slow and clumsy, but it was either speak or fall into her nightmares again, and right now she could not survive another visit. "This is my fault. I couldn't keep the memories secret. I didn't hide them well enough."

"He..." Costinov rasped, "he would have found out sooner or later."

She frowned; he was right. "Are you okay?" The tense silence following the question allowed Hermione to reflect upon its absurdity. "I'm sorry," she said quietly, feeling stronger. "That was tactless."

He made an affirmative sound in the back of his throat. It came out like a cough.

"What did he want to know?"

"Members. Agenda. Meetings." He let out a shallow sigh and groaned. Talking seemed to take every bit if strength he possessed.

"So now he-"

"He knows everything," Costinov interrupted. His voice was harsh.

"Why..." she stammered, "why didn't he just kill us?"

There was a long moment of silence before he answered, "I don't know."

There was another, longer moment of silence and when Hermione tried to ask him another question, Costinov did not respond. She listened closely to his breathing: it was shallow but steady.

Time lost all meaning in the complete and crushing darkness. It may have been hours or it may have been days. And as they had been given neither food nor water, Hermione thought days more likely. The hunger gnawed at her with a steady, throbbing, and silent fierceness. The melody of her and Costinov's shallow breathing harmonized with the churning of their stomachs for a while, but eventually tapered away. It was a different kind of pain.

Costinov must have been hurting too, but he was never coherent enough to express it. In fact, the Russian never seemed to wake, despite her frequent attempts to rouse him. His shallow breathing was the only sound from his side of the bars, and the tempo had gone from steady to irregular. She wondered what Voldemort had done to him. She wondered if he was dying.

Except for those morbid topics of torture and death, Hermione was unable to think of much more. Her thoughts were scattered and incoherent; pain and hunger consumed her from the inside and her body's resources were devoted to staving off death, not thinking of the future.

Her dreams, however, were vivid and forward-thinking where her consciousness was not. Whenever she closed her eyes, she saw the Draco from her nightmare, the filmy-eyed skeleton that caressed and petted her while whispering accusations. She saw him tortured and killed. Saw Brannon mutilated beyond recognition. Felt herself violated and the terror of a noose around her neck.

After an eternity – a week, in reality? Three days, perhaps? – the dungeon door slammed open. Violently bright light streamed in from the corridor and blinded Hermione. She threw her hands up over her eyes and turned away. For an insane moment, Hermione thought she had gone mad or died, but that fantasy evaporated when Voldemort spoke in his vile, high pitched voice. His words were measured, careful, almost like they had been rehearsed.

"I have thought a great deal of what you have shown me. This group, this _Resilience_, surmounts to nothing but mutiny. The sentence is torture and public execution."

He let his words hang in the air and Hermione felt her breath hitch. She had known this would be the decision, but it did not hurt any less to hear it. He continued.

"However, young Draco has always shown me loyalty despite his… _unconventional_ methods. I wish to speak to him myself before killing him. And you, Mudblood, shall be my courier."

He pointed his wand at a small stone near Hermione's left hand. It glowed blue for a moment, then the light faded. Hermione stared at it dimly, her sluggish brain not comprehending what he meant for her to do.

"You will go to the Dragon's Keep. You will tell Draco that I wish to see him tomorrow at one p.m. He will not be late."

Insanity – for it could be nothing but – formed words that fell from her lips, hardly audible and certainly dangerous. "And if he refuses?"

Voldemort chuckled. "Why, that is what you will be there for, Mudblood. As an example of what would become of him." With a mocking smile and another sinister laugh, he flicked his wand. The stone shot into Hermione's palm and there was a strong pull from behind her navel. Her mouth opened in a silent scream as she was instantly compressed and decompressed. She landed with a thud on the Keep's doorstep, but her unsteady feet could not hold her upright. She fell against the door, cracking her shoulder and broken arm against it. She cried out in pain and landed on her back, trying to fight the stomach-churning pain and the threat of blackness it brought.

It was several minutes before the door opened.

"And to what do I owe the unannounced pleasure?" came a bored, drawling voice from above her. There was a split second of silence then a loud, "Fuck!" as Draco saw her.

"Draco?" Her head whirled. Could it really be him?

"Shite, shite. Yes, Hermione, it's me. Everything is okay. Everything is fine." There was no disguising the panic in his voice. He stroked her hair gently but stopped abruptly and pulled his hand away. He swore again; she knew he saw blood.

"Draco, I told… I let him see…"

"Shh, Hermione. Quiet now, don't speak. It's alright, I have you. You're safe. Dobby!" The elf cracked into existence beside him and squeaked in horror.

"Mistress!"

"Prepare the study, Dobby. Cover the couch with fresh linens. I need a blanket, several large bowls, washcloths, loose fitting clothes. Every healing potion I have and my healing texts. Have the kitchen elves help you. I need it done now." Dobby disappeared with another frightened squeak.

"I knew he would kill…" Hermione could barely breathe and a black mist encroached upon Draco's terrified face. "Explanations…" she gasped and then the pain disappeared. Her vision faded, as did her ability to speak. Her body shut down to the brink of unconsciousness and the pain started to leave, but she fought to keep just a scrap of it. Just enough to keep herself conscious, to confess to Draco what she had done. How she had failed him.

Arms beneath her neck and knees. The warmth of breath on her cheek and his body on her's. A faint flying sensation as she was lifted into the air and the earthy smell of the outdoors fading into the comfortable familiarity of the Dragon's Keep. Repose on a comfortable surface that smelled faintly like soap.

He said something. The words were lost but accompanying them was a sharp pinch on her arm. Her tenuous grip on her consciousness dissolved and Hermione could not help but think that this was all becoming a little too repetitive. Then she thought no more.

When she next opened her eyes, it was to a skeletal face hovering over her own. Skin draped off it in ribbons, beetles scampered into its partially decomposed nostrils and the filmy grey-white eyes pierced into her with contempt and malice. She flinched and uttered a small scream and then the nightmare faded, leaving only Draco, whose cool grey eyes, she was relieved to see, held only concern.

"I'm sorry," he whispered, drawing away from her slightly. "I didn't know you would wake up so soon, else I would have given you space."

She shook her head. "No, it's fine. I don't…" Her words trailed off as she noticed something missing. "Did you-"

"Heal you?" Draco finished for her. He smiled. "Yes. You're better. Not perfectly healed, but better. Some rest, some food, maybe a few potions. You'll be back on your feet in a few days."

"A few days?" Panic chased away her grogginess. "Draco, we don't have a few days. The Dark Lord, he…" She moaned and brought her hand up to her tear-filled eyes, remembering what she had done. "Oh, Draco, I made a mistake. I'm so sorry." Then she started to cry, unable to help herself and unable to stop. All of the stress she had been under… The torture, the death of Richard, her encounters with Channing… It exploded out of her like never before, her body shaking with the force of her sobs. She could hardly hear Draco through them.

"Hermione, hush now, it's alright. I'm sure…"

"And… And I couldn't stop him," she hiccoughed, "And it all hurt so badly…"

"Put it right, I promise. It probably wasn't…"

"I just didn't mean to think it… Didn't guard myself… Resilience, it was just…"

Draco fell silent and his hands, which had been running through her hair, stilled. She sobbed harder, probably imagining the whispered, "At last."

"_Accio_," he said and Hermione heard something clink as whatever it was flew into his hands. "Hermione." His voice was stern and he gripped her shoulders firmly. "Hermione, I need you to take this. It's a Calming Draught. Then you need to tell me everything that happened. _Everything_. Can you do that for me? Hermione?"

He sighed and gently wrapped his fingers around the hand covering her face. Slowly, he drew it away, exposing her. She expected him to be disappointed or even angry, but he looked calm and remarkably unafraid. This calmed her enough to allow her to take a few deep breaths. Then she reached for the potion. He helped her sit and she swallowed it down. He allowed her a few more breaths and then pressed his hand against hers, for he had yet to let her go.

"Please," he said gently. "Tell me everything. I need to know."

Tears continued to leak from her eyes as she told him what had happened since Richard was killed. It was ten minutes before she reached the end.

"He wants to meet you at one p.m. tomorrow so that he can…" She faltered. "So he can speak with you before killing you. He sent me so that you could see what would happen should you refuse." She broke eye contact then. Surely the reprimand would come now. But instead, Draco did the unthinkable.

"Thank you, Hermione." She looked up at him in confusion. "You were very brave to try and hide Resilience from him. It was only a matter of time before he found out about us. I'm sorry it had to be at your expense."

"But… He'll kill you."

Then, Draco did something else unthinkable.

He chuckled.

"Why, if he was just going to kill me, would he keep you and Costinov alive? Why, if he didn't want to learn more, would he send you here to tell me of his request? He could have killed all three of us and been done with it days ago. No, the Dark Lord recognizes an advantage." His voiced dropped, becoming serious and a bit menacing. "In this climate, he'll take what he can get. When he sees what I've done for him…" He gave a dark smile. "No, Hermione. I don't think he'll kill me. Not after talking to me."

The speech sent a chill through Hermione's body. It sounded like there was much more to this than she saw. The idea frightened her and the surge of adrenaline gave her sudden strength. She pushed against him and made to swing her legs over the side of the couch. She noticed that he had dressed her in a pair of light sweatpants and a t-shirt.

"Where are you going?" he asked, grey eyes flicking over her.

"Back to the château. Vo- I mean, the Dark Lord, will want to know what you said."

"No."

Hermione looked at him quizzically. "No?"

"Hermione, you have been tortured and starved. I mended you the best I could, but it's not complete. Apparating, Porkeying, Flooing… Even flying. Anything stressful could do more damage and once I'm with the Dark Lord, I can do nothing for you. No, you need food and rest."

"But Draco, he needs to…"

"My owl, Atreo. He's the fastest owl I've ever owned and will get the letter there tonight. I wish I could Floo, but the Dark Lord does not have an open connection that I know about. I'll send the letter off at once. While I'm gone, I'll have Dobby bring you something. I know he's probably giddy at the thought of taking care of you again."

He snapped and the elf appeared with a tray of hot soup, warm, crusty bread, a glass of water, and several vials of multi-colored potions. Before Hermione could protest, Draco was gone and Dobby was shoving a spoon at her, having already placed a napkin on her lap.

"Is Mistress well now?" he asked. His bulging eyes brimmed with tears.

Hermione smiled wanly. On the one hand, she was with Draco. On the other, she might be killed tomorrow. She uncorked one of the potions, wincing at the bitter taste as she swallowed it down. She shrugged.

"As well as I can be."

Dobby made sure Hermione ate every bite of bread and that not a drop was left in either the soup bowl or the potion vials, apparently per Draco's orders. She felt much more herself now, stronger physically and mentally, and rose from the couch to take a turn about the room. She approached his desk, ran her fingers over his chair, looked out of the window to the forest and the bright afternoon sun. No nightmare existed here. She stopped at his bookcase and let her fingers dance over the volumes, her eyes skimming the titles. She hardly heard Draco return.

"What are you doing?" he asked sharply.

She turned to consider him, thinking that it was quite obvious. "I'm looking at your books. You've gotten some new ones."

"Why aren't you resting?" he snapped. "Your body needs to heal itself. Potions and spells only do so much. The slightest exertion could sap your strength. Get back onto the couch."

Hermione riled, but kept her face impassive and her tone even. "There's no time for that, Draco. I need to be back in front of the Dark Lord tomorrow and that means moving past what he did to me. If I've learned anything, it's that there's no stronger balm than distraction. And my body heals uncommonly quickly."

The last part was an exaggeration, but the rest of it was true. "Fine," he relented, like she knew he would, "but nothing strenuous. I've redone my laboratory recently. That should be alright."

She nodded and they walked to the third floor, Draco stopping at the landing of every staircase so that she could rest her body. She hated the erratic pace, but was grateful for it by the time they reached the tower laboratory. Her muscles ached as though she had been bedridden for a week.

"I told you so," Draco murmured and met Hermione's withering glare with a taunting smile. She turned away from him and regarded the laboratory.

He had changed almost everything. The benches were no longer wood, but brushed steel. "More hygienic," he explained, "and much easier to clean." The cauldrons were state-of-the-art and new glassware lined the walls in neat rows. He showed her to the second floor, where his storage closets had been reorganized and his ingredients repackaged and relabeled. His books were also rebound and charmed to be water-proof, acid-proof, and stain resistant. He gestured for her to pick a book. "We'll brew whatever you want."

She grabbed the first one she saw, "Parkel's Practical Potioneer," and flipped to a random page, looked over the potion, and frowned. It was called Weed Wrangler and, when added to water, it prevented weeds from growing near the plant you were watering.

"What's wrong?" Draco asked her.

"Nothing, it's just…" She shook her head. "Richard was killed in the greenhouse while we were weeding."

Draco took the book from her hands. "An unhappy coincidence," he muttered, and flipped to a different page. "We'll work this one instead, Spirited Speech – a drop in each corner of a room ensures lively conversation, quick wit, and makes the air smell like coconut. Here, go choose a workspace. I'll gather the ingredients."

He disappeared into the storage closet and Hermione descended to the first floor. She chose a bench in the middle of the laboratory and grabbed a cauldron from the stack in the back of the room. From the corner of her eye, she saw an inconsistency in the air. The light seemed to bend in a different way and she swore she saw the leg of a bench where one couldn't possibly exist. She glanced up at the second floor; Draco was still rummaging for reagents. Satisfied, she made her way toward it. She pressed her hands carefully into the strange flaw and gasped as something solid moved beneath her fingers, revealing a hidden workspace at the back of the laboratory.

"Well this is certainly new," she whispered to herself as she stepped through the opening. The room was small but well lit and in the middle of it sat a steel bench identical to the ones in the large laboratory. But atop the bench was equipment Hermione had never seen in_any_ wizard's possession. Glass stirring rods, pipettes, burettes, long condensing tubes, round bottom flasks, beakers, funnels, watch glasses, graduated cylinders, Bunsen burners, thick rubber gloves, a rubber apron, a fume hood, and several shelves of sterile white bottles with blue caps, labeled with letters like, "HCN" and "KOH."

_Muggle equipment_, Hermione realized with a start. She had not gone far enough in her Muggle education to know what any of it was for, but she did know that it was certainly suspicious for Draco to have it concealed in his potions' tower.

Though she desperately wanted to inspect the room further, she knew time was short. She rushed out of the room, eased the invisible door mostly closed, then scampered to the bench, rushing to lay out the necessary equipment. Her heart beat rapidly as Draco approached with the book and ingredients, but if he noticed her discomposure, he did not say anything. He filled the cauldron with water and they got to work, the secret room lingering at the edge of Hermione's mind.


	21. Ch 21: Revelation

Author's Note: Next chapter already - a little new year's treat for you all! I hope you enjoy it! :)

**Revelation**

After two hours, they had finished. The clear potion had the consistency of water and Hermione found the coconut smell to be very pleasant. "We should try it at dinner," she suggested, and Draco nodded, though the scent seemed to be a bit strong for his liking.

As they reached the kitchen, Hermione fell back into her training. "I was thinking pasta tonight," she said over her shoulder. She bustled around the kitchen gathering pots and pans and generally annoyed the two kitchen elves – Topsin and Roney – who were busy chopping vegetables. "Maybe chicken parmesan. That sounds pretty good, and Merlin knows I haven't had a decent-"

The words died on her lips as Draco's hand closed gently around her wrist. She sank from her tiptoes to stand on flat feet and looked up at him. They stayed like that for a long moment, his thumb running over her pulse point. His look was complex, sad and humble, but also proud.

"Don't you ever stop?" he scolded gently. "Let the elves take care of it tonight. You need-"

"Draco, if you say _rest_, I may throttle you," she warned quietly.

"To sit down," he finished with a smile. He put his hand on the small of her back to steer her away. A shiver raced up her spine. "Let's go to the conservatory. You apply the potion, I'll handle the refreshments." He pressed the vial into her hands and motioned for her to continue without him. She did, as much to escape his touch as to anoint the room. He rejoined her as she finished, bearing a bottle of wine, two glasses, and a tray of warm, cheese-filled pastry.

Considering the history between them, conversation easily could have slipped into the unpleasant. The potion did its job, however, and kept their words jovial and their minds sharp. They bantered and laughed and, in one of the rare silences, Hermione could not help but think how very unlike herself she was being. The more she thought about it the more she disliked it and was about to suggest they leave when Dobby called them for dinner. The chicken parmesan was perfectly cooked and absolutely delicious: by far the best meal Hermione had eaten in six months.

After the plates had been cleared and their glasses emptied, Draco suggested they head to the beach to watch the sunset. "It's beautiful," he said, "and the water is warm enough now to wade in."

Hermione smiled. "I've wanted to do that for a while. But what about the forest?"

His look darkened. "We'll slay that chimera when we come to it."

"Why does it affect me like that?"

Hermione thought she saw the shadow of truth cross Draco's eyes, then it was gone. He frowned. "I don't know."

"Do you feel anything?"

His face suddenly closed to her. "Yes," was his simple answer.

"What's in there?" She asked in full knowledge that she would not receive an answer, so what she was given surprised her.

"Not yet, Hermione," he said quietly. "Not yet." He turned toward the exit before she could question him further.

She caught up with him easily. Though she was unwilling to let the subject drop, she also knew that she had no choice in the matter, so they exited the Keep in terse silence. Almost immediately, Hermione felt the forest's pull. It was stronger than before, more urgent, and by the time she was at its edge, the desire to lose herself in its mystery was almost unbearable. She felt herself give into it, moving as if entranced, until Draco took her hand. He pulled her away and led her, half-dazed, down the overgrown path to the sea.

Her head cleared when they reached the shore. Draco slipped off his socks and shoes and, not bothering to wait for her, made his way into the water. Hermione followed suit. She lingered, rolling the legs of her sweatpants up to her knees and staring at Draco. She could not remember seeing him in anything but robes or trousers, but thought his khaki shorts suited him well. He had beautiful legs for a man: long, lean, and well-defined, covered in blond hair that was a few shades darker than was his trademark. Even the shape of his knees and ankles was strangely pleasing: agile but unmistakably masculine. She felt herself flush.

"Coming, Hermione?" he called back to her. She smiled at him and lifted herself up off the sand, joining him in the surf.

The cool water buried her feet until everything below her ankles was concealed in wet sand. A salty breeze tousled her hair and she swayed as the waves rolled up to her mid-calf, broke upon the shore, and pulled away again. Slowly, the sun descended, painting the sky with molten orange, deep magenta, and dark violet as it met the horizon. Color danced upon the white peaks of cresting waves, making the dark sea shimmer and ripple.

"I wish I could see this every night," she said softly. Draco was silent and still; she snuck a sidelong look at him. The dying light softened his angular features and took the shadows away. He looked peaceful.

"I know what you've done for me," she continued. "The bracelet… It helps take the pain away. How does it work?"

Draco fished beneath the collar of his shirt and brought out a silver chain. On it hung a green stone pendant, around which coiled a realistic silver dragon.

"Do you remember when you gave this to me?" he asked.

"Of course." She thought back to their wintery Hogmeade trip their seventh year. It had been an impulse buy, which was very much unlike her, but the contentment she felt buoyed her for much of that day and the days after. She soon began to fret, however, as was her wont. What if he didn't like it? What if he ridiculed the idea? What if he rejected her? The worry gnawed at her and she almost returned it countless times. When Christmas arrived and it was still hidden in her sock drawer, Hermione decided that it was too late: she had to give it to him. "Christmas day," she answered. "It was the same night you gave me the bracelet."

"Do you know what it meant?"

She did. "Protection against harm, against grief."

"No, that's what it did. I'm asking if you know what it _meant_." She looked at him, puzzled. He continued in a low tone. "This was the first honest gift I had ever received from a friend. Blaise, Crabbe, Goyle… Even Pansy. We exchanged favors, bribes. This…" He moved the pendant around the chain in a practiced gesture. "It was enough for you to simply do something good. You didn't want or expect anything in return. You just wanted to help me. It was selfless, Hermione. A selfless gift. In a way, it saved me from myself."

"But that doesn't explain-"

"The bracelet lessens the effect of harmful spells by siphoning some of the magic off. But that magic doesn't just disappear. It needs to go somewhere. When I charmed your bracelet, I charmed this pendant as well. This," he swung the dragon pendant again, "is the outlet for the excess."

Hermione gasped in horror, the full implication striking her at once. "The spell affects you too. Whatever I feel, you feel."

"It's not enough," Draco said. His voice shook. "I've tried to take it all, but there are limitations to the spell. But I've tried, Hermione, and I'll keep trying until I can give as selflessly as you did. Until I can save you from it."

Draco raised his eyes to hers. Quicksilver met cinnamon, and that was it. In a moment of perfect clarity, the world melted away and she saw him unfettered. He was no longer unreadable or untamable or unknowable. He was a man, complex, troubled, and deeply scarred. He had a horrifying past, a threatening present, and an uncertain future, and he risked it all just to spare her pain.

He loved her.

She felt this with a certainty that did not exist before. There was no hidden meaning here, where the infinite realms of ocean and sky kissed. There was no agenda. Only truth existed in this place, and she must abide by that law. So Hermione threw away her pretenses, her sense, and her restraint. She stood before him, her heart as naked and uninhibited as his was, and realized suddenly that she was tired of fighting him. She was tired of thinking and taking orders and acting. She was through pretending that she was immune to him.

Through with pretending that she did not love him, too.

The realization shocked her into movement and she flung herself into his arms, weeping tears of joy and relief. There would be no more lies between them, no more barriers. She needed him. What's more, she _wanted_ him. Their situation was desperate and insane, but what did that matter? She had made it this far, hadn't she? And Draco. Draco, who damned her to live in this hell. Draco, who then saved her and taught her how to survive. Draco, who made her pain his own. He would make sure she made it even further. She was certain of it.

"Draco," she whispered, threading her fingers between the silken strands of his light hair.

"Please, don't," came his weak reply.

"All this time, despite everything, and I can't believe…"

"Don't say it, Hermione." His voice shook, thick with tears and pleading. "Please, don't."

"Draco, I love you."

Her lips crashed onto his, sealing her fate. Draco froze for a moment so fleeting Hermione thought it could have been imagined, and then he kissed her too, sharing her destiny. Fingers dug into skin. Knees buckled. Bodies trembled. His lips were insistent and desperate; he clung to her like a dying man clings to life.

She deepened the kiss and pressed her body against his. She needed the reality of his touch, the heat of his body, and the beat of his heart as they stood breast to breast. She was lost in sensation, flying, falling, and then he pulled away from her.

"Hermione, I'm sorry," he whispered. His breath was an aphrodisiac and she captured his lips again. Honey and spice. A rare glimpse of heaven. She held herself to him violently and he tore away from her with just as much force.

"This can't happen, Hermione," he said. "There's so much you don't know, so much you don't understand."

"Forget about it, Draco. It doesn't matter anymore. I don't care."

"No!" He backed away from her touch and glared, his eyes fierce in the dying light. "It matters! It should not be forgotten, and you should care! You have to _understand_. You need to _know_ before this," he gestured to the air between them, "can work. Before you say words that cannot be taken back."

And in an instant, she made the connection. The electricity that set her nerves alight fizzled out, leaving her cold. She stepped away from him.

"No," she said. She had imagined this moment countless times, the setting, his excuses, her reactions. But this? On a beach with her soul and heart exposed? Terror gripped her and, for a wild moment, she nearly ran from him.

"Please," he said. His eyes cut through her. "I need to do this. For you."

"And you," she replied, suddenly angry. "You're doing this for you. Leave it alone, Draco, and live with your guilt like I've lived with mine! I've come to terms. I'm moving on. Why can't you? There's no need-"

"That you've accepted it is proof enough that I should have done this ages ago," he snapped. "Hermione, you should be much angrier at me than you are. You should not be able to tell me you love me, shouldn't even be able to consider that option because of what I've done to you. It's more than I deserve."

"Then don't say it," she pleaded earnestly. In two steps she was in front of him, her fists curled into the front of his shirt. "Don't say anything," she begged him in a whisper. "Don't say words that cannot be taken back."

"Hermione… Please." His eyes begged her, soft and yielding. They were her undoing.

Her acceptance must have flashed across her eyes. He whispered a, "Thank you," and led her out of the water to dry sand, where they sat down. He scooped out a shallow depression where he conjured a small bundle of flames for light and warmth. With a deep breath, he began.

"I was supposed to kill Dumbledore," he said quietly. "That was the task the Dark Lord assigned me when my father failed to obtain the prophecy from the Ministry. It was supposed to be a punishment, assigning me such an impossible task. What I managed to do was more than anyone had ever expected of me. More than _I_ expected out of me. But the fact remained: Snape had been the one to cast the spell. I hesitated. That was my mistake. I disarmed him, but didn't, _couldn't_, kill him. To this day, I don't know if I could have, even with all the time in the world.

"My punishment was severe. The Dark Lord tortured me for what felt like hours, then told my father to finish the job. My father did not want to kill me, but he came close. I don't blame him, if you believe it. There was so much tension – everyone's lives were hanging by threads and one misstep could have ended it all. _I_ almost ended it all.

"When I was well enough to take orders, I was brought before the Dark Lord once more. He had searched my mind while he was torturing me. He saw that Dumbledore had tried to recruit me and that I knew the location of the Order of the Phoenix. He couldn't see it – I wasn't Secret Keeper – but that I knew it was enough for what he needed.

"He wanted me to infiltrate the Order. I was to get close to Potter however I could, find his weaknesses, and sabotage the Resistance from the inside. I was the lynchpin, he told me. The key to his success. I saw it for what it was: an extension of my punishment. Yes, it was a chance for redemption. If I succeeded, all of my family's mistakes would be forgiven. We would have a clean slate, even be exalted when the Dark Lord gained power. But the Dark Lord knew how I would be received at the Order and at school. Though he probably never imagined how bad it would get, I'm sure he reveled at the thought of my exclusion.

"And there was a price. The Dark Lord needed assurances that I would not fail. I lacked the _proper motivation_, he told me. So I made the Unbreakable Vow with my mother." His voice cracked and she saw him relive the moment. His eyes were haunted. "The _Unbreakable_ Vow. My part was to kill Dumbledore; my mother's was not to help me along. He forced my father to be our binder. We were a family cursed with extinction and a death more cruel than we could imagine.

"It was extraordinarily smart on his part, of course. The one thing that would properly motivate me was the death of my mother. If she died, my father would have gone insane. It would have destroyed him and he would have destroyed me. My whole family dead because of me; the Malfoy line extinguished forever. I think that's what the Dark Lord wanted, to be honest. My family had failed him too often. We were too inconsistent to be of much use any more.

"He set me up for failure. He knew perfectly well what the feelings were between me and you, Potter, and Weasley. There was no way I could get close to Potter without raising everyone's suspicions and exposing myself as a spy. I couldn't get close to Weasley because…"

Hermione shot him a fierce glare, complete with snarl. "He was one of my best friends," she snapped.

"I had never cared for him," Draco finished lamely. "And that left you." He shook his head. "I don't know if you understand how much it disgusted me at first. Of all people, it had to be you. The Muggleborn who beat me in every subject we ever took. The girl whose blood was repulsive to me, who by her very nature was not fit to wipe dung from my shoes…" He did not hide the resentment in his voice.

"I didn't want to do it. It was unthinkable, but the consequences if I didn't… Those were even worse. So it began. The hate I felt toward you, and that I'm sure you felt toward me, was real. _Lowering_ myself to your level went against everything I had ever been taught. All those times I hurt you? Insulted you?" He lifted his grey eyes to meets hers; she could see poison in their depths. "I meant them. I'm not a killer, Hermione, but I am not a nice man. I was an even nastier boy. I look back on it now and just…" Draco shook his head in disbelief. "I was repulsive," he spat, "How you could even stand to look at me... I didn't deserve it."

"You didn't," she agreed acidly, if not a bit too readily, "and it's my fault for believing you could be something you weren't. But if this mission was so important to you, why did you bother with the insults and the curses?"

He gave her a speculative look. "Had I arrived at the Order and laid on the charm, what would you have done?"

"Hexed you into oblivion."

"And at Hogwarts, when Potter and Weasley weren't there to watch your back?" Hermione frowned; he had a point. "I had to make it look natural. I had to insult you and then gain your trust, show you that everything and nothing had changed without incriminating myself. My mother's life and my family's name depended on it. That was all that mattered. I was fueled by desperation. I would not fail. Not this time.

"From there, you know what happened. Time passed. It seemed like I started to hate you less. Zabini and those idiots actually helped me along. They gave you reason to pity me. I knew you saw me as a broken thing waiting to be fixed. A lost cause, even. I played right into your sympathies, Hermione, and I knew it. It was all according to plan.

"But what I didn't expect was that I actually _did_ start to hate you less. I won't lie and say that I had a terrible childhood. I was rich enough to buy friends, had an affectionate mother, and, yes, my father could have done better, but he was only doing what he thought would help me through the world. Yet there were many things I didn't have: loyalty, genuine affection, sincerity. You showed me those things. You were no longer this insufferable snob. You cared about me. You were honest. You listened. You wanted to help. Imagine my horror," he said with a wry chuckle. "A Muggleborn… You were everything I wasn't and offered me everything I never had.

"I was so angry at you. Frustrated that you could be so good but so blind to what I was doing. I wanted to shake the naiveté out of you and make you see the truth. But you refused to be swayed and that made it so much easier for me to get close to you. For once, I felt comfortable in my own skin. I didn't have to worry about what being with you might cost me. Sometimes, I even forgot about what I had to do to you. I was falling in love with you, Hermione. Head over heels in love."

His words hung in the air like a lead balloon. The gravity of them hit Hermione square in the chest and she dreaded what came next. Tears slowly made tracks down her cheeks. She didn't want to hear it, but knew Draco could not stop.

"I was in love with you, but it was my job to ruin your life and the lives of everyone you loved. It tore me apart, like with every beat my heart ripped itself further out of my chest, but what could I do? My family needed me and you were a Muggleborn and I was the selfish fool who fell for you and didn't have the sense to try and make it right while I still had the chance.

"I was terrified, Hermione. Terrified of failure, terrified of succeeding. Whatever path I chose would end in disaster and there was no way I could come out of it a happy man. I considered telling you everything. Christmas. Valentine's Day. The Quidditch Finals. After we made love. All the nights we studied together in our Common Room. The words were there, poised on the tip of my tongue, and I… I…" He buried his face in his palms.

"Coward," she hissed. He looked at her and she saw him shatter.

"I can't tell you how ashamed I am." His voice was low with anguish, humiliation, guilt, regret. "Craven. Spineless. _Weak_. Afraid of uncertainty, of change. The one path I could have chosen was the one that had the greatest chance of saving you, the people you love, and me."

"So why didn't you?" she spat. "Aside from the fact that, short of murdering your kin, you would do anything just to save your own hide?"

"What would your reaction had been if I had suddenly confessed all?" he yelled back. "Explained to you how I lied and manipulated you? How I preyed on your sympathies, on your greatest _strengths_, for my own gain? Hermione, you would have hated me! You could never love me after that! I would have lost you for good!"

Despair consumed her, so cold and fast that she could not contain it. She jumped to her feet and dug her fingers into her hair, sobbing in frustration and grief. Deep down, she had known the truth of it. She knew that there was more to his betrayal than orders or even hatred. There had to be. A man could not love her like he had loved her and be insincere. Hearing him explain it all somehow made her pain more bearable, but did not remove the sting of reality. Draco's arms were around her in an instant, holding her together as she threatened to fly apart.

"I am a coward, Hermione, but worse, I am a _selfish_ coward. I couldn't come to you because I knew it would destroy me. Yes, my life was a wreck and I was stuck between a manticore and a hard place, but I loved you and you loved me. I couldn't deny myself. I couldn't sacrifice myself for you, couldn't stand the thought of you looking at me with contempt after I confessed, couldn't stomach the idea of you getting back together with Weasley. The thought of you being happy with another man filled me with hatred; I never had any intention of sharing you. You were mine, all that I wanted, everything I needed. I couldn't live my life without you since I had once lived it with you. I – a selfish, contemptible bastard to the last. I couldn't let you go… And I couldn't… I couldn't…"

Draco gasped and fell to his knees before her, his entire body contorted in grief.

"A boy's thoughtless mistakes and a young man's tortured life," he said quietly, his voice thick with heartache. "Now you know what it means when you say you love me. Now you know what I've done and why I did it. And now you know how impossible it is for you to say that you love me. Hearing it is like eating the apple of Eden, but I knew that if I told you… If you knew…"

His words were lost in his sobs. "I don't expect you to love me. I don't expect you to forgive me. I just wanted you to try to understand me. I'm not the man I was and I live with regret so piercing that a piece of me disappears with every heartbeat. But I love you. I always will love you. And I… Hermione… I'm so sorry."

A deep, shuddering breath ended his speech and he sank onto the sand, his head hung between his knees. Hermione sank down beside him, feeling weak, resigned, and a good deal calmer than she had any right to feel.

"Why now?" she asked.

"For the first time since Potter's fall, the Dark Lord is going to Legilimize me. There are some things that just cannot stay hidden, no matter how sturdy the defenses. Love is one of those things. If he is still the Lord I think he is, he will be no closer to understanding its power than when he started. I am counting on this to work in my favor, but it may end up doing the opposite. Whatever the outcome, I am ready to face the consequences now. Responsibility," he croaked, "a lesson I learned too late."

They sat in silence until the sun disappeared below the horizon. The evening star winked into life above them and was soon joined by her companions. Soon, all remnants of sunlight were gone, leaving only the night's gentle caress.

"Why couldn't you just be a villain?" she asked him quietly. She stared into the petite bluebell flame and felt rather than saw him stir.

"The world is rarely so black and white," he whispered. "It would make existence too simple."

She wiped her tears away. "I'm tired of everything being difficult."

Draco laughed quietly. "I am too, but it won't change anything."

"So what can?"

His eyes burned into her, but she resolved not to look at him. "You," he whispered. "Me. We can change things."

"How can you say that?"

"Don't you get it, Hermione? Don't you understand?" His voice was so earnest that she could not ignore him any longer. The flames danced in his eyes, making them sparkle. "More than anything, I want to be selfish. I want to steal you away and run from my responsibilities. But I can't and I won't. I've _changed_. I see now that there are things in this world that are bigger than you and I. Things that are more important than us. I hope you can understand that."

She laughed wryly. "Draco, you are talking to the best friend of the boy whose entire existence was for the _Greater Good_. So yes, I understand you perfectly, but that does not stop me from wishing it could be different. What you've done was beyond your control. Yes," she continued in response to his shocked, almost horrified, expression. She herself was a little surprised. "You were seventeen – barely an adult – and you battled with impossible decisions. There was no way to come out of it unscathed and, given the circumstances, who's to say I wouldn't have done the same thing?" She glanced at him again. "You looked appalled."

"I just can't imagine you choosing the path I did. You would have confessed, tried to have saved everyone."

She thought for a moment, her brow furrowed, and shook her head, uncertain. "I like to think I would have, but I don't know. The pressure you were under… The lives you held in your hands… I am good under stress but I have a breaking point. I think that would have broken me. Nothing good can come of desperation and your story is as desperate as I've ever heard."

"You forgive me?" His voice was harsh, as if he consciously stripped it of hope.

Hermione hesitated. "I wasn't lying when I said that I had come to terms with what we've done. I have. I live with my guilt and I'm trying to move past it. Part of me feels horrible and callous, like I'm abandoning them. But even though I'm still here and they're in some anonymous grave," Draco flinched beside her, "I'll never forget them. Just like I'll never forget how you watched as they burned. Just like I'll never forget the mistakes I made that allowed them to burn in the first place. So do I forgive you? No. I think that's a long way off. But I do understand, and that's a start."

"That's more than I ever hoped for." Draco took her hand in his and pressed it firmly. "Thank you."

"You're welcome." She let the moment hang between them unscathed, but she was not through with him yet.

"What I really don't understand," she continued, "is what you're doing now. Your service to him is repulsive and wrong and I know that you can't change it without risking your life and the lives of your family. But if you've learned to be selfless, I wonder why you haven't even tried." Draco looked stung momentarily; she continued. "You are meeting with him tomorrow, confident that he won't kill you. You have attended his fêtes, sat at his right hand… You have power and rank within his office. He listens to you and still you help him instead of fighting. And don't tell me that you believe that propaganda he puts out!" she said sternly in response to the defense she saw him preparing. "After what you've told me, the love you have for me, you cannot honestly say that me and _my kind_ are _below_ you. You're too smart for that and we both know it."

"What if you're wrong?" His voice was full of significance but its meaning was lost upon her.

"I'm not." Her retort was swift, cracking in the air like a bullwhip. Draco said nothing but maintained eye contact. "And that's what I'm trying to puzzle out now, Draco," she murmured. "How can you love me but hate everyone like me? How have you learned to sacrifice but still refuse to give up your comfortable, safe life to help those who need it?" She stared at him intensely and, almost of its own volition, her hand reached out and caressed his cheek, her fingers running down his ribbon-thin, hairline-to-jaw scar. Draco closed his eyes and leaned his head into her touch.

"And what if you're wrong?" he said softly. He laid his hand to the back of hers, pressing the length of her palm against his cheek.

Their eyes met and Hermione saw another shadow of truth, a flicker of something that at once frightened and exhilarated her.

_What if?_


	22. Ch 22: The Life of a Storm

**Author's Note: **Hey all! Not much to say here, except a long overdue thank you to both of my beta readers! They have helped make this story much better than it had any right to be. :)

**The Life of a Storm**

A tea tray, a bowl of fruit, and a goblet of pumpkin juice sat on the table before her, appearing before she could even think about getting them herself. Thoroughly accustomed to being self-sufficient, Hermione was grateful for the elves' services today. She had not slept well last night. Had not slept at all, actually.

Draco's confession swept through her head like a windstorm, disorganizing all the webs that structured her thoughts. Some became less tangled. That Draco had shown remorse gave Hermione hope. His regret proved his humanity, finally allowing her to consider a relationship with him or, at the very least, to define what currently existed between them. And that self-hating corner of her consciousness, the part that whispered about unrequited love and foolish hearts, stopped speaking so loudly. She understood why he did not have a choice and she felt _freed_ by it.

Other ideas, however, became more muddled. Until now, everything she knew pointed to Resilience aligning with Voldemort's agenda. She eavesdropped on their first meeting through Brannon's door where they laid out their goals. She listened to them plan out how to enforce one of Voldemort's laws, for Merlin's sake! The only reason they remained secret was to avoid the complications and dangers of outside influence.

Right?

Hermione didn't know. She believed every word Draco had spoken last night, but he'd told her ages ago that a quirk of the lip or a lifted brow could say much more than a roll of parchment. He had certainly quirked his lips last night, and lifted his brows, and flinched, and stared into her like a Diviner into a crystal ball. Yet he remained impossible to read. She was probably the best at it of anyone currently living, but even she didn't trust herself to do it with absolute certainty. More likely, she was misinterpreting him. His words were cryptic and the expression behind his eyes fleeting. She couldn't disregard facts – _facts_! – because of a few hazy expressions in the heat of the moment.

But what if it wasn't the heat of the moment? Draco had a highly compartmentalized mind and he was good at keeping all of its sections discrete. He planned everything, a skill that perfected as he matured, and was about as logical as she was. Maybe he planned this, too. Maybe those lifted brows and quirked lips were intentional. Maybe he _gave_ her this information, indecipherable though it was.

But why? What would he want her to do with it? It was dangerous to share a secret. Deadly, even, and this one was perilous at the very least. If Voldemort ever saw the truth behind his eyes, or simply _suspected_ treachery, Draco would be dead before he could say "chessboard," and all the other Resilience members would be soon to follow.

Hermione shuddered and stared into her pumpkin juice. Whatever his intentions, Draco was playing a dangerous game with Resilience as his queen and she as his pawn. Or did she have it backward? In chess, the deciding piece is the king, but the one most players would sacrifice just about anything to keep is the queen. Draco loved her, risked his life for her, and taught her how to survive on her own.

The realization made her warm and cold at once. She was his queen, so he loved her. She was his queen, so _what did he want her to do_?

Last night, he'd spoken of the greater good, of working toward something bigger than either of them. Was it the amplification of Voldemort's reign, or was it his end? Hermione shook her head vigorously, trying to dislodge these thoughts. They were stubborn, however, and gave her more hope than she would have liked.

_What if_?

Hermione frowned. It was unwise to dwell on last night, but all she had were scraps of information and questions wanting answers. She needed closure.

"Sleep well?"

She started at Draco's voice and turned in her seat to look at him. He wore pajamas – light grey cotton pants and a loose fitting t-shirt – and the dark circles beneath his eyes bespoke exhaustion. "About as well as you did, I imagine," she replied.

He nodded. "Touché." He took a seat beside her and grabbed a goblet of juice. "Dobby?" The elf cracked into existence at his elbow.

"Is the Master and Mistress wanting their breakfasts?"

"Oatmeal, please," Draco said, then looked at Hermione.

"I'll have the same, Dobby. Thank you."

The elf squeaked in delight and disappeared, leaving them in tense silence.

"Draco, about last night…"

"I meant every word," he interrupted quietly. "And nothing has to change between us. I don't expect you to… to love me back. It's enough that you're still speaking to me."

She had not expected their conversation to turn sentimental so quickly. "I owe you at least that much."

That seemed to hurt him. "Hermione, don't do that. Don't make this out to be better than it is. You don't owe me anything."

"I owe you _everything_," she said firmly. "My life several times over. I'm grateful for everything you've done for me, but Draco, I..." She hesitated and studied his face. She spoke her next words very carefully. "I don't understand why you're holding back."

And just like that, just like she expected, his expression stiffened. "What do you mean?" His tone was controlled and too even to be natural. His eyes betrayed nothing. It was like he had turned to granite.

She continued the experiment. "Don't play dumb with me," she said, fighting the urge to fidget under his steely glare. "There's something you're not telling me. Something important."

"Hermione…"

"Tell me what it is."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Bollocks, Draco, don't play games! Not after everything! I saw something yesterday, alright? Something you keep hidden." His eyes narrowed dangerously and she thought for a moment that she had gone too far. It was too late to turn back, however. And besides, it was working.

"Be quiet."

"You don't have to hide it from me."

"Be quiet!"

"But Draco, I can help you!"

"Damn it, Hermione, I said be quiet!" he yelled. He slammed his fist against the table and glared at her, his nostrils flared in anger. Despite herself, she shrank away from him. "Forget what you saw," he hissed, "and forget what you _think_ you know. Today is not the day to call my loyalty into question."

Their oatmeal appeared with a nearly silent pop through the table. He glared at her for another scorching minute before turning to his bowl. Hermione did the same a moment later, but barely registered the nut-and-dried cherry topped food.

She was right.

This was neither the Draco of a few minutes ago nor the Draco of last night. She tried to control her expression as a rush of triumph swooped through her stomach. Draco rarely lashed out like that unless he was under immense pressure or threatened. His meeting with Voldemort today should have supplied pressure enough to crack a Gringott's vault in half, but he was confident about it, almost unconcerned. And when she revealed what she knew or, rather, what Draco _thought_ she knew, his attitude changed completely.

He was plotting something: the Muggle chemistry equipment and cryptic words proved that much. And her instinct, no matter how much she wanted to ignore it, told her that it was something good, something that would change the world. If she was right, _everything_ changed. Everything he taught her, everywhere she went, everything she said... Her life since leaving Azkaban would have an entirely different meaning.

An epiphany sent a shockwave through her body. Her spoon clattered onto the table, too loud in the tense silence, and the bite of oatmeal she was about to take made a quiet splat.

Draco's success today hinged on her ignorance. That is why he was so nonchalant about his meeting with Voldemort last night and why he nearly struck her this morning. As long as she had no idea what was going on – for better or for worse – he was not in danger. But now that she had a suspicion, she was the threat, and that could destroy him.

Hermione sensed Draco's unease and guessed that he knew she had figured it out. The urge to look at him was unbearable, but she kept her eyes down, even when he rose from the table and disappeared. Only after he had been gone a full minute did she look up. Pushing her oatmeal away, she set her features and headed to the library. She was going to forget what she saw and what she heard. Everything she suspected, every theory, _anything_ that could link Draco to a plot to overthrow Voldemort... She would forget it all. The body count on her behalf was already too great, and she would not add one more life to it if she could help it.

She lay down on a large sofa, shut her eyes, and calmed her breathing. Slipping into that comfortable meditative state was more difficult than it should have been, but Hermione forced her mind to relax. This was one thing she could not fail at.

Hours passed with nothing but the quick tick-tock of a grandfather clock in the hallway. The sound of dress shoes against marble interrupted the uniform beat and, with a deep breath, she slipped out of her mind and into her body. Slowly, she sat and looked toward the threshold. Draco stood in a dress robe of such dark green it was almost back. He spun a broken quill between two fingers.

"The Portkey leaves in a few minutes." His voice was still controlled, still steady. His mask was firmly in place.

So was hers. "I'm ready," she said firmly.

Draco nodded stiffly, but his manner seemed to relax just a little. "This will take us to the front doors, where we will meet our escort. You will accompany me to the Dark Lord's chambers."

Hermione nodded. She would not break this time, not for anything. Draco must have seen the determination in her eyes because he allowed himself a small smile and offered her the hand with the broken quill. She took it unhesitatingly and rose. Barely a hairsbreadth of space separated their bodies and their palms held the Portkey in place between them. She looked up into his eyes, those hard, steel eyes that had cost and given her so much. She rose on her tiptoes and kissed him on the lips, a long, lingering kiss that begged to be continued. When her eyes opened again, she saw a man softened. One who loved her more than he loved himself. She smiled at him, and brought her lips to his ear. His heart beat a quick tattoo against his breast, against her breast, and in that moment, their lives coalesced.

The words she whispered were lost in a vortex of compression and spinning which ended an instant later. Breathless and entwined, they stood still for a moment. Then Draco exhaled a long, shuddering breath. The spell was broken. He stepped away from her and Hermione breathed in too. The air was thick with the threat of rain and ozone, and a low rumble of thunder warned them of what was to come. Hermione glanced at the sky: it was pillowed with dark thunderheads. The storm was nearly upon them.

"Hermione, I need you to listen to me." She looked back at him and saw his mask slide into place once again. "Stay behind me at all times. Do not make eye contact. Only speak when spoken to and, whatever happens, don't play the hero. I cannot risk you getting hurt. Do you understand?"

"Yes."

Draco nodded curtly and lifted the large, serpent-shaped door knocker. It fell with a resounding boom that seemed to shake the earth itself. Seconds later, the door opened. Draco entered first, Hermione following closely. It shut with a quiet click and she squeaked in surprise as a hand landed on her shoulder, its fingers curling into her flesh. She froze, knowing without a doubt who their escort was.

"Malfoy and Granger, together again," said Channing Orman, his voice low and sing-songy. "Brings back fond memories, does it not?"

Draco turned around, his face haughty. "As much as we'd love to chat, Orman, we have a meeting with the Dark Lord."

Orman's grin wavered. "Of course. Follow me, please." He unhanded Hermione and led them twisting through back hallways and up winding staircases. Hermione repressed a shudder as she passed through a thick layer of wards on the fourth floor landing. Out of thin air appeared a large, dark door. It opened silently. "Best of luck," Orman said in a tone that obviously wished them anything but.

She had taken no more than a step into Voldemort's chambers when she wished to be far away from them. A more forbidding and inhospitable place she had never seen, and that included her cell in Azkaban. A single window on the west wall overlooked the château's gardens. It was the only window and would have been large enough to illuminate the massive wooden desk and formidable length of space before it if the weather had been sunny. But the dense thunderheads let little light escape their folds, so the room was sunk into a dour, forbidding gloom.

It took her eyes a moment to adjust to the low light, where everything was a bathed in a palate of grey and black, but as they did, she could distinguish subtleties in the décor. The walls were painted a dark, vicious red, made more menacing by the dark-stained wood floor. A few iron sconces hung on the opposite side of the window for additional light and shone with orange flames as dark a shade as the paint. Several shelves stood sentinel on the walls, crowded with books and artifacts. A pair of foul-looking, wickedly sharp black daggers sat crossed beneath an unmoving portrait of Salazar Slytherin. An orb shining with pale blue light emitted soft but shrill screams. A long, slender wand that may have been Dumbledore's sat in a glass case and, right beside it, was Harry's. She would know the holly and phoenix feather shaft anywhere. A ribbon of pain sliced through her heart, but she refocused before it could do any damage.

"Welcome, Draco. How very kind of you to attend me so promptly."

Hermione's breath hitched in her throat as Voldemort's high-pitched voice emanated from the corner. He was swathed in shadows, the low light barely bright enough to outline his figure.

Draco bent into a half-bow. "I would never keep my Lord waiting. Thank you for seeing me."

"You have healed her."

The remark caught Hermione off-guard, but Draco responded immediately. "A dead servant is useless servant, my Lord, and a crippled one a burden. I would hate to see your collection bereft of such a fine trophy, besides."

Voldemort chuckled. "A fine trophy, yes, and a veritable vault of information. Do you know what the Mudblood has shown me, Draco?"

"Yes, my Lord."

The first curse caught Draco in his gut, the second in his right shoulder. By the time the third hit, he was on the floor and Hermione realized what was happening. A burst of adrenaline swept over her body like a tidal wave, sending her two steps backward. With her back flush against the closed door, the situation suddenly became crystal clear: she was going to watch Draco die.

"The meetings you have staged are nothing less than high treason," Voldemort said calmly. Draco rocketed into the air and slammed against the ceiling, hitting his head with a sick crack. "Anyone with blood less pure than yours would be killed outright." A flick of the wand sent Draco crashing to the floor, his body limp. His face instantly bloodied and his shoulder hung at an awkward angle beneath his cloak. "Tell me, Draco..." Voldemort rose and stepped into the light. His face was contorted with rage and there was now a sinister edge to his voice. "Why should I allow your blood to continue to flow?" He swept his wand up and held it vertically before him, pinning Draco in the air like he had pinned her mere days before. Draco moaned in pain, a sound Hermione felt in her gut.

"Please, my Lord, let me show..." His words were a horrid whisper and, using his last ounce of strength, Draco lifted his lolling head to meet Voldemort's red eyes.

There was a long moment of silence, broken only by the steady drip of Draco's blood onto the wood floor. Then the world seemed to exhale. Draco's head dropped back onto his chest and Voldemort stood still, his back straight and tense.

"This is true?"

"Yes, my Lord," he wheezed. "Look again if you doubt me."

Voldemort frowned and flicked his wand once. Draco crashed to the floor one last time and lay facedown and unmoving.

"I will think on it. You!" He pointed at Hermione with his wand and she braced for the incoming curse. "Count yourself lucky: you may yet see another day. Take him to the third floor and give him a room. Then summon Healer Ammons to tend him. I want him conscious tomorrow; we have important matters to discuss."

Hermione lowered her eyes. "Yes, my Lord." She moved to Draco's limp body and took him by the shoulders, attempting to heft him to his feet. She could feel Voldemort watching her every move. "Please, Draco," she whispered into his ear. "Get up, _move_. I've got to get you to a healer."

She pulled on him again and felt him stir. Her heart soared as he got his hands beneath him and breathed, "Hermione." For as beaten as he was, he sounded relieved.

"Yes, it's me, and we've been given a stay of execution, but we have to go _now_. Please, Draco, I know it hurts, but try, you must try!"

"You... hurt?"

She could have smacked him or kissed him. "No, but if we stay much longer, I might be. Please, _please_!"

Draco drew a shallow, hitching breath and, with a quiet groan, got to his knees. He gained his feet with Hermione's assistance and leaned heavily on her shoulder as he stood. She turned him toward the door but he did not move with her.

"Thank you, my Lord," he said with another half-bow.

Hermione thought she saw Voldemort's expression flicker into his version of amusement, but did not linger to study it further. She barely noticed Draco's weight as she bore him down the hidden and twisted flights of stairs to the third floor landing. She left him on the bed of the first open room she saw and ran to the healer's quarters. The plump old man listened calmly as Hermione described the nature of Draco's injuries, but he spoke swiftly and authoritatively.

"I need to gather my potions. Strip him completely. Lay him down but make sure he does not fall asleep. Wash your hands thoroughly and rid the wounds of any debris. Apply pressure to bleeding areas. He is not to move, is that understood?" Hermione nodded sharply. "Good. Now go to him, quickly!"

Hermione had never moved through the castle so swiftly. She burst through the doors of his room, horrified to see that he was attempting to stand.

"What the hell do you think you're doing?" she screeched, earning a weary look. She was before him in an instant, undoing his bloodied cloak.

"What..."

"Quiet," she interrupted harshly. "Healer Ammons is on his way. I need to strip you." She was efficient but gentle, her hands remarkably steady.

"You're not hurt?"

"No, but you are. Now be quiet." Draco managed to close his mouth and glare at her, but his annoyance turned to pain as she jostled his broken shoulder pulling his shirt off. She muttered a quiet but sincere, "Sorry, couldn't be helped," and continued her work until his chest was bare, pale and perfect except for the thick, pink scar running across it. "Lay back, please."

He did as he was bid and she had his trousers and underwear off mere seconds later. She went to the closet and grabbed a sheet, draping it over his groin for modesty.

"Thank you."

She nodded in response and moved to part two of her instructions. "Don't move," she told him, and was back at the closet again for washcloths and towels of every size. She placed them on the bed and hurried to the bathroom next, washing a basin she found beneath the sink and filling it with scalding water. More scalding water sanitized her hands and, not bothering to dry them, she brought the basin to his bedside. She located the softest cloth of the bunch, dipped it in the water and searched his body for wounds.

They were not difficult to find. The first two curses had opened large but shallow wounds on his lower abdomen and right shoulder. Hermione thanked Merlin it wasn't the broken one. The third cruse made a thin, deep-looking gash across his left thigh and gluteus. All bled freely – the white sheets were soon stained crimson – but none were overly contaminated with foreign material. She dabbed at them gently, trying and failing to ignore Draco's muffled cries of pain. Each one cut to her core.

Her hands shook as she reached for his head. She cursed silently. The adrenaline tide was starting to wear off, but Hermione knew she couldn't allow herself to feel this yet. Draco needed steady hands and a clear head, not a shaky, weeping dormouse. She tried to ignore his eyes as she cleaned his cut lip and broken nose.

"Hermione…" he rasped.

She ignored him. Grasping the base of his head firmly, she lifted: the pillow was bloodied. "Shite," she swore. Head wounds were serious, even in the wizarding world. Voldemort could have done serious damage. If the Healer didn't get here soon...

"What is it?"

"Head wound," she said, trying to sound blithe. "Just a little bump, nothing to worry about, I'm sure." The reassuring smile she gave him felt forced. She could tell he didn't believe it.

"I'm going to be fine," he said weakly.

"I'll be the judge of that, young man," said Ammons. "Now hold still." He walked into the room briskly and shoved a large bag into Hermione's arms. Drawing his wand, he ran it over Draco's body slowly, muttering quietly as he did so. A few minutes of tense silence passed and the healer's shoulders seemed to relax just a little.

"Dislocated shoulder," he said. "Two shallow abrasions, one deeper. Several minor cuts and bruises. Broken nose." The old man shook his head. "Nothing to be concerned about, but that head wound…" Draco shot Hermione a look. "Those are tricky. Girl-"

"Hermione," Draco said. She and the healer both looked at him in confusion. "Her name is Hermione."

Ammons glanced at her, looked back at Draco, and scowled. "Facial recognition doesn't seem to be affected and now that we're introduced, perhaps you'll allow me to treat you?" Without waiting for an answer, he addressed Hermione. "Essence of Dittany should work for the shallow cuts – three or four drops. Mind you space them evenly. One drop for all the minor abrasions. I'll fix his nose, set his arm, and work on his leg."

Hermione did as she was told. Draco bit his lip to keep from moaning, but could not bite back his roar of pain when the healer popped his shoulder back into place. Tears welled in her eyes, but she held them back. There would be time for tears later.

"Give him a blood replenishing potion and something for the pain – yes, that blue one, there – and help me sit him up. We have to look at his head." Gently, with one hand on his chest and one on his back, Hermione braced Draco while Healer Ammons waved his wand around Draco's head. It was a long time before he finished.

"He has a minor concussion, but these things can take nasty turns. Hand me that Dittany." Draco's skin sizzled as the liquid took effect. Ammons tucked his wand into the voluminous pocket of his healer's robe. "He needs to be monitored. Pepper-Up Potion should not be administered with head wounds and I don't have anything else that will keep him awake. That responsibility falls to you, Hermione. Keep him awake for ten hours. If he goes to sleep, he may not stir again."

Hermione stifled her gasp. "Yes, Healer Ammons."

"You know where to find me if anything goes awry. He can move about, but limit his range. I'll send up some broth later. Clean him gently; Scourgify could irritate his new skin. And change these sheets – it looks like someone died."

Healer Ammons took his leave. Now that Draco was not on the brink of death, Hermione could look at him properly. His skin was ashy-grey and some places were streaked with drying blood. His newly relocated shoulder showed the beginnings of a large contusion and the deep gash on his leg was still pink and tender looking. The room spun. Carefully, Hermione lowered herself into a bedside chair and leaned over until her head touched the mattress. Her breaths were uneven and shallow and the familiar prickle of tears irritated her eyes.

"Hermione…"

"Draco, how could you?" she said venomously. "You lied to me. You told me you were confident he wouldn't kill you."

He smiled wanly; it infuriated her. "I was right, wasn't I? No harm done." She glared at him; his smile grew larger. "Well, no _lasting_ harm."

"Do you have any idea what I just went through? To see you tortured like that, almost killed? And I was helpless! I couldn't move, Draco, I couldn't do anything. I couldn't and he just…" Now was the time for tears, and they streamed from her eyes in burning rivulets.

Draco's hand was warm on her knee. "Yes," he said quietly. "I know what that's like."

"Of course," she choked, "of course you do. I'm so sorry… I just… I was so helpless."

"You did everything you needed to."

"I wish that bracelet worked both ways."

"That is not your punishment to endure."

Hermione chanced a smile and shook her head, dashing the tears from her eyes. "You're alive," she said. "That's all that matters. Now I have to concentrate on getting you through the next ten hours."

"You're learning," he said with a smile.

She laughed wryly. "Brightest witch of my age, remember?" For some reason, the thought made her want to sob harder. She had fallen so far, but that was a lament for another day. "I suppose I should get you up so I can change the sheets."

"A bath would be much appreciated, too."

"Of course. All that blood…" She repressed a shudder and went into the bathroom. She turned the taps on and found shampoo, soap, and sandalwood bath oil on the counter. The mirror and windows fogged as the tub filled with hot water, and she went to get Draco as it did. He waited for her on the edge of the bed. The blood-stained sheet was still draped over his pelvis.

Hermione's breath caught in her throat. She hadn't really noticed Draco's nudity earlier: she was too full of purpose to give it much thought. But now it was unavoidable. She flushed with embarrassment.

"I don't think I can get to the tub without your help," Draco said slowly. "If you're uncomfortable, I don't have to bathe. I'll be fi-"

"No. No, you need to wash. I'm sorry, I'm being foolish. It's… It's nothing I haven't seen before," she whispered. She sat down beside him, so close that their legs and arms touched. The heat from their bodies mingled, amplified, and soon Hermione felt flush all over. Draco covered her hand with his, and moved it so that it rested on his thigh.

"You can join me, if you like," he murmured

Hermione had forced herself to forget the comfort of his body, the closeness they had once shared, and the intimacy that had blossomed between them. It all came rushing back to her then, clouding her mind and setting her body on high alert. She had denied herself that comfort for far too long and given the events of the day – the discoveries she had made, the punishment he had received at her expense – she could deny herself no longer. She respected him. She believed him. She _trusted_ him. It was time to start showing it.

She put her arm around Draco's torso and together they stood. They walked to the bathroom slowly and she eased him into the tub. Almost immediately, the blood rehydrated and loosened, staining the water pink.

"This won't do. My wand is in the left pocket of my robes," he told her. "Please, bring it to me."

Hermione nodded and exited the bathroom. She grabbed two towels then moved to the robes. When she touched the wand, the haziness in her head turned into a dense fog and the warmth in her body exploded into a fire. Though it was not the familiar, tingling power of her own wand – a sensation she would never again experience – it was exhilarating nonetheless. Insane notions of death and escape further muddled her senses and, for a moment, she considered her future as an outlaw. Where would she go? What would she do? How long would she survive?

The fog over her mind rolled back just as quickly as it set in. Draco had just taken a beating for her. He needed her. He _loved_ her. He was her best chance at survival. She wouldn't insult him by attempting an ill-conceived escape attempt. He deserved better.

She set the wand atop the towels – just to have it out of her hands was a small relief – and brought the bundle into the bathroom. Draco had already wet his hair and the water was dark pink. She set the towels next to the tub and Draco took his wand. With a wave, the water began to circulate and the tinge was gone within a minute. He set the wand on the edge of the tub and the silence between them suddenly became awkward. Draco raised his eyes to hers, looking as nervous as she felt. Her hands shook as she fiddled with the hem of her sleeve.

"Hermione, you don't have to do this. I'm sorry, I shouldn't have asked." He looked away from her, thoroughly miserable.

The heady smell of sandalwood, his body, and her desire spurred her into action. "Draco…" She drew his eyes and, with a deep breath, opened the robe, baring her modest bra and panties. Draco's breath hitched as she undressed fully and stood naked before him. His quicksilver eyes burned into her.

"You're beautiful," he said simply.

With a soft smile, she climbed into the tub and settled between his legs. Though it looked small, the tub expanded to suit a second body and Hermione saw that she could turn around in place to look at Draco if she so chose.

She did not choose so, however, and settled gently against Draco's chest.

"I'm not made of spun glass, you know," said Draco. He wrapped an arm around her shoulders and drew her firmly against him.

"Your wounds…"

"They don't hurt."

"Tell me if they do."

"I will."

They sighed in unison and Hermione relaxed into his arms, laying her head against his shoulder. He laid his cheek against hers, seeming to need her touch as much as she needed his.

The storm broke. Lightning flashed, thunder crashed, and rain lashed against the windowpanes.

"Sounds like hell out there," Hermione remarked.

Draco chuckled. "Naked in a tub and you want to talk about the weather?"

"It's easier than the alternative," she said with a smile.

"Which is?"

"_Acknowledging_ that we're naked in a tub."

His arm tightened around her and his erection pressed into her lower back. It was more intimate than sexual and Draco made no apology for it. She was glad he didn't. He kissed her cheek and traced a line of kisses down her neck. She let the fire of his love wash over her and turned in his arms so that they could kiss her properly. Their lips moved together, a continuation of what she had started earlier, hot and languid with tongue and teeth.

"It's beyond wonderful to hold you like this again," he murmured against her lips.

The smell and taste of him were overwhelming, and every touch set shivers down her spine and ignited a fire in her belly. "I've missed you," she confessed softly, and kissed him again.

Though there were plenty of opportunities to stop, Hermione had no desire to. She loved him. Because he sacrificed and bled and risked everything. Because he loved her, had never stopped loving her, and would keep loving her until their deaths. Despite what he had done, because of what he was doing, she loved him. She loved him as he loved her, and she would have him while she still had the chance.


	23. Ch 23: The Human Condition

**Author's Note: **Hrm... not much to say. Thanks for your patience and to my excellent beta, who saved this story from utter disaster. Enjoy!

**The Human Condition**

They spent the rest of the night in quiet conversation. Or rather, Hermione asked questions like how much Voldemort had seen and what would happen tomorrow, and Draco answered cryptically with, "Everything he needed to see," and, "What needs to happen."

Despite his evasions, Hermione could not bring herself to stop touching him. The texture of his hands told the story of his life. Manicured fingernails bespoke wealth and influence, but the calluses on the pads of his fingers and the scars on his knuckles proved that he was not content to let other people fight for him. Not any more, at least. Somewhere between sixth year and now, Draco had grown into a man. Hermione felt she had the measure of him too, but with Draco, one could never be certain.

Healer Ammons returned near midnight. The old man swept his wand over Draco's body and around his head, then declared him fit to sleep. "_You _may go," he told Hermione with a pointed look.

She glanced at Draco one last time. His skin was not as ashen as it had been, though his eyes looked tired and hollow. No doubt he needed a good night's rest, and Hermione hoped that Voldemort would not send for him until after he had eaten a few hearty meals. Though who could say what the mad wizard would do? That both of them escaped his room with their lives was proof enough that Voldemort was dangerously unpredictable, though Draco had been confident enough of their survival. Perhaps he understood something about Voldemort that she did not. Or perhaps he was just lucky. Hermione thought the latter was more likely because, if Draco knew something more, he wasn't telling her about it.

She saw no one as she made her way to the cellar. The corridors were as empty and cold as one would expect from such a late hour, and Hermione felt oddly vulnerable walking them alone. Her echoing footsteps were her only company, and they were the company of a ghost, a shadow of the real her. But who was the _real_ Hermione? So much had changed in the past few days that she felt like a bit of a stranger to herself. She was suddenly given answers to long-asked questions and the insight she gained was much more than she expected. Possibly more than she could handle.

There was nothing she could do about that, however. She had to take what was given to her and do the best she could with it. And the best she could do now was sleep. Trying not to think about Draco's soft mattress four floors above, Hermione curled up beneath her thin blanket and slept, dreaming of shadows and storm clouds.

Morning came too soon, bearing with it an enthusiastic Death Eater complete with not entirely empty threats. Hermione assembled outside of her cell with the other servants. Almost simultaneously, their eyes flicked to her. They were surprised, and with good reason: after days missing, they could hardly expect her to be alive. Denise, she noted, still seemed sour, and Marsha looked like she wanted to set fire to Hermione's robes. Apparently, her reentry into the land of the living had not softened them. They ate breakfast in silence and paired off to their respective duties. In the late afternoon, while Hermione was cleaning the library with Denise, her tattoo burned hot. She clapped a hand to the back of her neck and looked at the blonde.

"What do you think that means?" she asked.

Denise looked at her like she had sprouted antlers. "What are you talking about?"

Her tattoo burned again, longer and hotter this time. "My tattoo. Isn't yours burning?"

The blonde narrowed her eyes. "If you're pulling my leg, you're doing a poor job of it. Get back to work. These shelves won't dust themselves."

"I'm not having you on and – ouch!" She clapped her hand to the back of her neck. Her skin seared again and the ache was starting to travel down her spine. Hermione threw down the rags and ran from the room. Denise shouted something at her back, but Hermione ignored her. This could be nothing other than a summons from the Dark Lord himself.

She sprinted around corners until she came to the stairs, which she took two at a time. The tattoo gave a final burst of fire halfway up so excruciating that it nearly brought Hermione to her knees. She clutched the banister and reeled, finally leaning against a wall to steady herself.

Mercifully soon, the flare subsided into a steady burn and she was off again. Bursting through the wards of the fourth floor landing, Hermione rapped thrice on the large, dark door. Just as it felt like the tattoo was building up for one more burst of pain, it opened. Hermione stumbled across the threshold but managed to keep her feet. She grit her teeth to keep from crying in relief.

"My Lord?" she asked, trying not to pant.

"Mudblood," Voldemort said, his voice cold and even. "I was wondering how long you would make us wait."

"Apologies, my Lord. I did not mean to-"

"_Silence_! I have no desire to hear your excuses. As it happens, you most rudely interrupted a conversation between Draco and me. And I always thought the mark of a good servant was neither to be seen nor heard." He addressed the last to Draco, who chuckled indulgently.

"Quite so, my Lord."

"Obviously there is work yet to do. But where were we? Ah, yes, _Resilience_." Hermione's heart fluttered in her chest. "If these men are who you claim them to be, then I have been most assiduously deceived. What is there to protect me from other traitors?"

"We are there, my Lord. Resilience members are of the purest blood and the most loyal of your followers. One of our goals is to stamp out potential uprisings, which have become more and more common in recent years, as my Lord surely knows. Why, just last week in Greater Brumblestone we raided a group that was attempting to supply wands to Mudbloods and blood-traitors! We're close to finding their leader, or so Draunet tells me."

"And you mean for me to trust you?"

"Certainly not, my Lord. I admit it was a grave misstep to proceed without your awareness – a misstep that is my responsibility alone – and one I mean to rectify by giving you full disclosure and unlimited access. I will report to you weekly, or however often you require. And Resilience is a group of highly-trained wizards. Should you have any matters of a more _delicate_ nature to attend, merely say the word and I or one of my compatriots will act as your hand. Nothing will be done without your knowledge. My Lord, Resilience is yours."

"It is true that some of my Death Eaters are a tad... _clumsy_. Perhaps it would be wise to take on a group with defter handling. Surely, a group that has evaded my notice for years is worthy of the spot."

"And a group that has done nothing but work for a better world in your name, my Lord," Draco amended carefully. "We are yours to command."

It was a pretty speech and Voldemort seemed to like it. A sinister smile spread across his face. He rose and turned toward the window, his arms crossed in front of his chest. There was a long moment of silence before he spoke.

"Come to the window with me, Draco. Tell me what you see."

Draco rose to obey. Hermione edged closer, too. Though she had not seen the view yesterday, she knew that part of the grounds thanks to the greenhouse windows. Voldemort and Draco should have looked out upon a large, open field with a small copse of trees beyond it. Now, however, the field was a sizable pond and the copse was nothing more than a graveyard of splintered wood and shorn leaves.

"I see destruction, my Lord. A lack of control," Draco answered after a moment. "But there is also opportunity for change."

"Go on."

Draco nodded. "That field is swollen with water. How long does it take to drain?"

"A week," Voldemort answered. "Sometimes longer. Then the rains come again."

"Excavate, my Lord. Make it a pond. Add fish. Plant a willow or two on the southern side."

"Make a pond?" Voldemort echoed, looking pensive.

Draco chanced a smile. "Why fight nature?" he asked with an elegant shrug.

"Why indeed..." A slow smile contorted his thin lips. "You have always shown promise, Draco, and I think your time has at last arrived. Girl, arrange a room and make sure his belongings are unpacked. You will be at his disposal in addition to your other responsibilities. Your quarters shall be moved to the first floor for convenience. Now leave us."

She was hesitant to go, but Draco seemed to be in no immediate danger and if she lingered, she would be. So she gave a sedate, "Yes, my Lord," and left them together.

Draco's trunks were already in his room. Some of his luggage took it upon itself to unpack. Several paintings had taken the liberty of hanging themselves up, a stack of books arranged themselves neatly on his bedside table, and a small, locked chest settled inconspicuously in the far corner of his closet, rattling threateningly toward Hermione when she approached it. His clothes did wait for her, however, so she set herself to the task of arranging his wardrobe. It was a formidable job that took over two hours. Draco entered just as she was stowing the last of his socks.

"Well, that went better than expected," he said, collapsing into a plush chair. Hermione whisked past him to open the window and straighten the duvet.

"Oh yes, so much better," Hermione muttered venomously. She had had two hours to ponder this most recent development and she was not optimistic. "You barely escaped with your life, I'm your bloody handmaiden, and the rest of the servants are going to like me all the better for my room on the first floor."

"Glad you're looking on the sunny side of things," Draco said in a monotone. Hermione rolled her eyes at him and continued her work. "Derision doesn't become you, dearest.

She stopped reorganizing Draco's books and looked at him, arms akimbo. "What did he want?"

If Draco was taken aback by the question, he did not show it. "What do you think he wanted?" She scowled and fluffed his pillows violently.

"What is he going to do?"

"Whatever he wants to do, of course."

"So Resilience will-"

"Continue on as planned. We are the Dark Lord's best kept secret. Everything he needs us to be," he interrupted with a smile, his tone one of finality. "And now," his voice dropped an octave and he rose. Hermione stilled at his approach and closed her eyes as he put his hands on her shoulders. "And now you're everything _I _need you to be. You're safe, Hermione. No one will ever hurt you again. I promise."

It took Hermione a week to believe him. Channing Orman, who had made a habit of stalking her through the castle and verbally assaulting her whenever she worked alone, mysteriously disappeared. She was not thick enough to believe that he had been transferred or delusional enough to entertain the hope that he had died, but he wasn't near her and that was good enough. She went about her single duties unharassed.

Working with the other servants, however, was a different matter entirely. Marsha, Denise and Anita were sore with her already for having received the dubious "promotion" that Marsha rightly deserved. So when Denise was ordered to make ready a small room on the first floor, the other shoe dropped.

"Oh, you should see all the space she has," Denise said acidly over turkey sandwiches and cool water. "She's got a window to see the sunlight, a clean toilet, a working shower... She's quite the princess." Hermione ate her lunch as if she couldn't hear. "A real bed, too. Not like ours, all buggy and stuffed with straw. She sleeps on feathers now. And new robes with the Dark Lord's own insignia. It's no wonder he's moved her – the castle whore should have a proper place to bed her masters."

_That_ rankled. Hermione's cheeks flushed and she glared at Denise. The blonde looked at her impudently, as if daring Hermione to deny it or scold her. But she would not give Denise the satisfaction. "Back to work," she hissed and left the table in a swirl of new robes. She hoped that Denise's charge wouldn't influence the others, but it was in vain. Leonard and Michael looked at her differently, a strange mixture of disappointment and anger. Even Alexander distanced himself. It wasn't long before Hermione gave up on them all. She didn't have time to worry about others' opinions when she was trying to keep Draco on schedule.

It was quite the task. Draco used her above and beyond what she considered the normal scope of her responsibilities when regarding him. Not only did she change his bedding, launder his clothes, and bring him food, but she also ferried messages between him and Costinov – who had been healed and released from the dungeons – or him and Voldemort.

Hermione didn't know whether to be resentful or grateful. On the one hand, his summons often came at the most inopportune moments imaginable. The burning would come sudden and strong, so jolting that it caused Hermione to drop whatever she had been holding. Usually it was a harmless rag, but once it had been an empty terracotta pot full of soil-covered weeds she had gathered while in the greenhouse with Leonard. It shattered and the weeds spilled everywhere; Leonard did not appreciate the extra hour of work. But even worse was when she dropped the bucket of dirty water when she was mopping with Anita. The auburn-haired woman swore oaths so violent that Hermione was glad her new room had a working lock.

On the other hand, the extra time she spent with Draco was lovely. When she brought him lunch and dinner, for example, he shared his meal, insisting that she eat half of it, if not more. He read to her as she cleaned his room and folded his clothes, and the feel of his hands on her body was the most delicious burning Hermione had ever felt. Contact like that could have easily led to kisses that were just as fiery, but they held back for obvious reasons. Nevertheless, time with him was like living in a dream, a taste of her old life.

Though she attended Draco regularly – both without and with Voldemort – Hermione did not consider herself privy to sensitive state information. He did not speak of business when they were together and, when she brought Draco tea or fetched a sheath of parchment that he had forgotten in his room, he and Voldemort would suspend their discussion until she was safely away. She welcomed their precaution: she wanted nothing to do with what they were talking about, both for her safety and her peace of mind.

One day, this changed. She was balancing the castle ledgers one night when her tattoo seared. She made a quick note of her progress, hastily stowed the parchments, and ran to the third floor to see Draco. He was slow to answer the door.

"Hermione? What is it?"

She looked at him, aghast: her tattoo still burned. "The summons… It isn't you?"

His brow furrowed. "Come straight here when you finish with him."

She nodded and hurried away, traversing the maze of corridors and launching herself through the fourth floor wards. She rapped on Voldemort's door with far more control than she felt she possessed and stifled a cry of relief when it opened.

Her eyes swept the room. The dim, strangely dark orange light flicked over the walls, and Hermione was reminded of fire. She felt trapped, claustrophobic, as if someone had locked her in a furnace. She took a deep, steadying breath. "My Lord?"

"Come in, Mudblood. Take a seat."

Voldemort stared out of the windows. It was near ten p.m. now and then sun had set. The sky was being overtaken by dark, dusky blues and the first stars appeared in the east. His back was to the expanse of the room, but she approached cautiously nonetheless. Voldemort was a great wizard – there was no use denying it – and he did not need to wave his wand to inflict pain. She perched on the edge of a black leather chair and waited several minutes for him to speak.

"Do you remember when Draco came to me, girl?"

"Yes, my Lord," she answered obediently. She doubted she would ever forget it.

"Do you remember what he told me?"

"Yes, my Lord."

"What were his words?"

Hermione hesitated for a fraction of a second. "He wondered why we fight nature, my Lord."

"Come to the window."

Confused and frightened, Hermione obeyed. Even in the fading light, she could see the changes wrought upon the field. In just two weeks, a pond had been excavated. Two willows, larger than newly-planted trees had any right to be, sat on the southern side, and a pair of swans nested amongst the reeds.

"Why do we fight nature?"

She hesitated for longer this time. What did he want her to say? What answer would not get her killed?

"My Lord?"

"Are you deaf, slave?" Voldemort spat, his voice suddenly full of spite. "I know you are not dumb. Answer the question, and answer me truly."

"I suppose… I suppose it's because nature is the one thing we cannot control, my Lord. We can't control it, so we rebel against it."

"What is _our_ nature?"

She stifled the urge to goggle at him. "I… I'm not sure, my Lord. It depends on who you ask."

"I am asking _you_." His voice was low and threatening. Hermione examined his reflection in the window. His long, pale fingers were steepled and the tips rested on his chin. His eyes were slitted but the ominous red seemed to glow in the darkness. The answer she had would not please him, but if she lied, he would know. Then he would force the truth from her. He would discover much more in her mind than her opinion of human nature, Hermione knew, so she steeled herself and spoke honestly.

"Human nature is to deceive, my Lord. We deceive strangers, we deceive our loved ones, and we deceive ourselves."

"To lie," Voldemort whispered. "Human nature is to lie." Hermione's silence was her accord. "What then?"

"Death." Her voice was a harsh whisper. "And then there's nothing."

"Nothing?"

Her parents' faces flashed across her mind's eye. Her mother was crying, waving her off from Platform 9 ¾ , and her father's proud face beamed at her through his own mist of tears. She watched Harry's joy when he caught a Snitch for the first time and Ron's pride when he was awarded points for beating McGonagall's chess set on their quest for the Sorcerer's Stone. She saw the smiling faces of the Weasleys at a family dinner and the determination of the Order members. Those faces belonged to corpses and ghosts now.

"_Nothing_." Hermione repeated, more than just a trace of bitterness in her voice.

There was a long moment of silence. "Do you think about death?"

This time, her answer was immediate. "Yes, my Lord."

"Often?"

She nodded. "Every day, my Lord."

"Why?"

"It is my reality, my Lord. Death has been my companion since… since the end. Sometimes… Sometimes I feel like I'm just waiting to die, not really living at all."

She said the last in a whisper and Voldemort made a noncommittal sound in the back of his throat.

"Am I waiting to die?"

He spoke so quietly that Hermione thought he may not have spoken at all. "My Lord? I… I don't understand."

He opened his eyes. Hermione shuddered. "Leave me."

"Yes, my Lord." She left the room quickly and headed immediately to Draco's. She raised her hand but did not knock yet. Her conversation – _conversation_? – with Voldemort was impossible. He was acting _human_. There was no other way to put it. From most people, this change would be welcome. Encouraged, even. But from Voldemort, it was terrifying. This is because he wasn't human – not in the traditional way – and traces of humanity could only mean disaster.

This raised another question: should she tell Draco? Perhaps Voldemort's out of character behavior was a one-time occurrence. Maybe she was blowing this out of proportion. It was late at night and perhaps he had a hectic week. Their talk was born of stress, nothing else, and she should just forget it before it got her into trouble. But if it was important…

Draco opened on the first knock. He pulled her through the threshold and sealed and silenced the room.

"What happened?"

Hermione shook her head and sat slowly down on his bed. "I'm not entirely sure." She told him everything, the memory fresh enough to repeat large portions of it verbatim. By the time she finished, Draco had nearly worn a track in the carpet from pacing.

"What does it mean?" she asked.

Draco shook his head. "I don't know, but it merits careful attention. Tread softly around him, Hermione. Don't give him anything he could use. I have to think about this…"

Hermione nodded; she had some thinking to do herself. Draco gave her a distracted kiss goodnight and bid her once more to be careful. She hurried back to the kitchen to finish up the ledger work and, once completed, locked herself in her room. She had no idea what Voldemort's questions were leading him to, or why he sought her opinion about them. If the gods were good, maybe they would spare her this newest intrigue and she would never know. But, as she drifted off to sleep, she knew it was a vain hope. Nothing in this world seemed to happen apart from her.

The next few days were just as strange. Voldemort did not summon her again, but the Death Eaters seemed abnormally edgy. Draco, too, was tense and brooding, and when she asked him for information, all the answer she received was a glare and a terse, "Mind your business."

On the fourth night after their bizarre tête à tête, just as Hermione was stepping into the shower, her tattoo burned hotter than ever before. The pain brought her to her knees and she cried out, unable to restrain herself. Tears blurred her vision as she threw on her clothes and raced through the castle to reach Voldemort.

She burst through the fourth floor wards and ran bodily into Draco. The pain halved immediately and relief stole the strength from Hermione's legs. She started to collapse but Draco grabbed her arms and held her steady, effortlessly keeping her aloft.

"Remain calm," he hissed in her ear as Voldemort's chamber door opened. "Control yourself."

The directions barely registered as the other half of the pain fled her body. Draco had released his hold on her to stand before Voldemort. He made a polite half-bow.

"Be seated, both of you."

Draco swept elegantly into one of the chairs across Voldemort's expansive desk. He leaned back and crossed on leg over the other, a picture of ease. Hermione tried her best to imitate him, but only managed to stumble into the chair, her aching body thankful for respite.

"My life is not controlled by chance," he started, speaking quietly. "It is controlled by _me_. Thus, I fight nature because I _must_. I _must_ live a life of certainty, and – so far – I have. I have never doubted my rise to authority, though the path to it was riddled with obstacles. I have never doubted my power, though I was once beaten by an infant. And I have never doubted my immortality. Until now."

Voldemort's red eyes leveled such a stare at Draco that greater men than he would have flinched, and his voice was held enough malice to kill all of Britain with a single word. Draco, to his credit, only sat a little straighter. "I would never have imagined such a group of fools existed who would have the gall to work behind my back, and if it were headed by anyone other than yourself, I would have killed you all. As it is, Resilience has the potential to become yet another powerful weapon in my overflowing arsenal. Yet this does not change the facts: a group of wizards operated without my knowledge and consent, and had they meant me harm, they would have undoubtedly succeeded.

"I, who have never doubted, never questioned, and never wondered! I, who am all-powerful! I, who has traversed the path to immortality, and has gotten closer than any man! I… who has shown himself capable of being fooled."

Voldemort sat back and rested his elbows on the arms of his chair, his fingers steepled. He spoke slowly, so as not to be misunderstood. "I am no longer immortal. My Horcruxes have been destroyed. Had I enough soul left, I would make more. But I can _feel_ the error of that path: to split myself further would be risking too much. But I must remain alive. My ideas, my reign, my _legacy_! I refuse to lose myself to the nether!" He was silent for a long while, then: "I seek another path to immortality."

Hermione's heart fluttered. There were no other paths. Or, rather, no paths that she knew of. Whatever Voldemort was thinking had to be deeply entrenched in dark magic.

"_This_ is the human condition," he spat in disgust, gesturing to his body. "This shell, this husk, this _corpse_… _This_ is seat of mortality. _This_ is what will fail me. But an idea…" He paused and sat up, leaning onto the desk. Hermione shuddered at his sudden nearness, but he did not falter. His voice was zealous and his eyes shone with fervor. "An idea cannot die. An idea is already eternal. It needs neither spell nor potion to be sustained. It merely requires a vessel, one as strong and enduring as the idea itself. _An_ _immortal_."

A shiver ran down Hermione's spine. His words poisoned the air; she felt sicker with every breath.

"A great epiphany, my Lord," said Draco, "and a wish easily accomplished. Flesh of a servant, blood of an enemy, bone of the father…"

"That will not work," Voldemort interrupted suddenly. "I would be born back into this body, this age! Hardly the escape I require."

Draco was silent for a moment, thinking. "I know of no spells for immortality, my Lord, though I will have the Malfoy archives searched. Give me a month, maybe two-"

"It is not a spell!" he interrupted impatiently. "It is an object: the Fountain of Youth."

Hermione froze and sent a sideways glance at Draco, which he ignored. "My Lord," Draco leaned forward and spoke quietly, as if revealing a great secret. "The Fountain has been lost for centuries."

"And if the research I have done is any indication, it will not be found for several more. The last wizard who sought it – you know his name, I presume?"

"Cortés," Hermione whispered, horror-struck. Both men shot her surprised looks.

Voldemort grimaced. "He succeeded. He found the Fountain… He drank from it! Cortés imbibed the waters of eternal youth and went on to triumph over the savages of Central America! Indestructible, undefeatable! A hero in his time!"

Tyrannical, murderous. A man whose greed knew no bounds.

"My Lord, I do not understand. If the Fountain is lost-"

"_Cortés kept a journal_." Voldemort's words were an excited hiss. Hermione flinched and Draco sat back in his chair, mouth gaping. "A journal which has found its way into my possession. Cortés documented everything he could about the potion: its consistency, its color, its smell, it effects. He even guessed at its origins. Over the centuries, witch and wizard alike have tried to replicate it with little success. They did not possess the knowledge that _I_ possess, however." Voldemort laughed – a low, ominous hiss that Hermione wished she had not heard.

"I believe I can replicate the potion's effects." He smiled, baring a full set of sharp, glistening teeth. "Blood," he hissed, "combined with a few other _choice_ ingredients. And providing I make a few adjustments, I have my reagents." He spread his hands apart, indicating Draco and herself.

Draco cleared his throat uncertainly. "Adjustments, my Lord?"

Voldemort laughed again. "Do not fear, Draco, for I do not require more than you will be able to spare!"

"I would give my life for you, my Lord, and it is concern for your well-being which moves my tongue to speak. Adjusting a potion – even a simple one – is dangerous. It could have unknown consequences, could even be fatal. And an original concoction like you propose…" Draco shook his head. "This potion could be disastrous for you."

"Do you forget to whom you speak?" Voldemort brought his fist down upon the table in anger. "The theory is sound! The reagents have been gathered! And the blood given shall parallel my own: a worthless, heartless baseborn and Pureblood whose veins flow with the power of unrequited love!"

Hermione sat up straighter at this and shot another look at Draco. Voldemort noticed and turned to her with a grimace.

"You are surprised," he guessed. "But you should not be. I have learned from experience, girl. I have seen young Draco's innermost thoughts. I have seen his… _desire _for you. As contemptible and wretched as it is, it cannot be ignored. I cannot _afford_ to be ignorant of love's power now, and once that power runs through my veins as well, I shall be revitalized!"

Hermione remained tense, still confused.

"Ah," he said slowly, a second realization dawning. "Ah yes, you are one of the few aware of my… _humble_ beginnings. And so you think that the combination will not work. Since you are a _Mudblood_," he spat the word, "and not a true Muggle, my blood will not be parallel to your own. Foolish girl." He glared at her, then turned toward Draco. "_This_," he cocked his head back toward Hermione, "is the adjustment. Imbibing the blood of a Muggle, the lowest of creatures…" Voldemort scowled. "The very thought is taboo. I will not have my body tainted or my power lessened. But the blood of a Mudblood witch… An uncharacteristically _powerful_ Mudblood witch…" Voldemort sat back in his wing-backed chair and looked, in his own, twisted way, very pleased. "The ceremony shall take place this Saturday at sundown."

Hermione forced herself to relax as the room descended into silence. Voldemort had misinterpreted her. Partially, anyway. One of her concerns was indeed the proposed symmetry of their blood. A potion of this magnitude required precision above all else. If Voldemort neglected to use the proper reagent, the potion would probably be useless. _Probably_. His foray into magical research could very well prove the Theory of Potions incorrect.

But what really concerned her – and was cause for her reaction in the first place – was the requirement of unrequited love.

Draco's love was not unrequited. She loved him as ardently as he loved her.

Yet Voldemort had explored her mind just as thoroughly as he had explored Draco's. He saw the moments they spent together, the tenderness between them. He saw their night on the beach and the passion and confliction she felt toward him.

But perhaps that was the problem. Perhaps Voldemort could not see past her confused thoughts to the forgiveness budding beneath. Perhaps he could only see the damage Draco wrought and not what he had given of himself to help rebuild her. It was a shallow understanding – more of a misunderstanding – of what love _is_, at its core. It gave her hope: perhaps Voldemort had not learned as much as he thought.


	24. Ch 24: Rite and Right

**Author's Note: **I hope everyone enjoys this chapter! Thanks for your patience and to my excellent beta. Enjoy!

**Rite and Right  
**

The door to her room rattled beneath a pounding fist.

"Granger! Get out here!"

She recognized the voice at once: Costinov. Hermione sighed. She wasn't surprised; dawn had broken at least an hour ago and she had not left her post at the window. She had not left it all night, actually, even though her back ached and her mind longed for sleep. But how could she sleep when tomorrow – or, rather, _today_ – was Saturday? The day she dreaded? The day she and Draco would make Voldemort an immortal?

She rose stiffly and opened the door; Costinov had not stopped knocking. "You are late," he accused at once, anger thickening his Russian accent. "The others have started without you."

"I know." She had skipped breakfast intentionally, hoping for a punishment severe enough to warrant her incarceration.

Costinov took a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger. In that moment, Hermione knew she had been beat. Costinov was not only a patient man, but also part of Resilience. He would not harm Hermione, not with Draco so near, and especially not with Voldemort requesting her attendance. Had it been anyone else, her ploy might have worked.

"You are in the greenhouse today with Denise. You will work until six, and then you will meet me at the main staircase. I will escort you to the third floor."

"What's on the third floor?" she asked, but too late: he was already gone.

Denise greeted her with a glare and a sneer. She disappeared into the mass of floral foliage, leaving Hermione to contend with the more treacherous plants. She didn't mind working with the dangerous species; today, in fact, she had hoped for it. With a cautious glance over her shoulder, she edged towards the Devil's Snare and nudged it a few times with her the toe of her shoe. The plant writhed in its corner, obviously annoyed, but the morning was unfortunately bright. It did no more than squirm and lash out at her ankles with its sharp tendrils. Hermione sighed again and wondered if the Fates were working against her: they were sure to be when she couldn't even goad the Devil's Snare into a fight.

Had Draco seen her provoking the most deadly plant in the greenhouse, he would have scolded her for being irresponsible. But he had not seen her – had not seen her all week, in fact. His absence was unexplained and mostly unwelcome: Hermione was spare with worry and desperate to talk to him. She wanted to unload her theories onto someone who would understand, though she highly doubted he could offer her any sort of reassurance.

Hermione had thought a lot about the coming ceremony and had reached several conclusions. The first was that Voldemort's substitution of her blood for genuine Muggle blood would not impact the efficacy of the potion. As much as she hated to admit it, Voldemort was a brilliant wizard. Evil and insane, but outstandingly clever when it came to spells, especially those regarding self preservation. He probably planned for the substitution. It's what she would have done.

The second concerned Voldemort's assumptions about her love for Draco. Though fundamentally incorrect, this miscalculation probably wouldn't render the potion useless either. It was more likely that the love running through Hermione's veins would strengthen his power. It was the worst outcome she could imagine, nearly as unthinkable as its solution: stop loving Draco.

Her third conclusion was that she had never had a more ludicrous thought. As ardently as she had wished for it in the past, Hermione thought she knew enough of love and life now to recognize that nothing was ever that simple. She could not just turn off a switch in her heart that would make her feelings for him disappear. Neither could she convince her brain that Draco was not worthy of her love. Love was a gift, precious and terrible, and she could not willingly deny it, though it may ruin everything.

So her fourth conclusion – and possibly the only reason she was glad for Draco's weeklong absence – was that there was only one way to prevent the ceremony from taking place: permanent incarceration.

Would it even matter if she was locked up? Probably not: whether in chains or in formal wear, Voldemort could make her attend. And she did not have to be a willing blood donor, of that she was certain.

Was it worth a try anyway? Of course. If there was any way she could throw off the ceremony, or even delay it for a few more days, she would do it. She was, after all, desperate.

Was it childish? Undoubtedly, yes. She had walked swiftly on marble floors that were slick with water. She had been tardy and lackadaisical in her duties. She had talked back to Costinov more times than she could count and even lingered closer than strictly necessary to the few Death Eaters she had seen hanging about the castle. For an insane minute, she had even considered seeking out Orman, but could not bring herself to actually do it. She wasn't suicidal, after all.

Was it effective?

Much to her frustration, the answer was a resounding no. She had not fallen or been disciplined. Costinov had not chucked her into the dungeon and the Death Eaters hardly noticed her. Any other week, even one of these attempts would have earned her a few well-placed hexes or a night in a cell. But not this week, not the week that she actually _needed_ it.

In a last-ditch attempt to get thrown into the dungeon, she did not meet Costinov at the stairs at six o'clock. Fifteen minutes later, he was dragging her up them.

"You insist on making my job difficult when it should be too simple," he griped.

"What's on the third floor?"

He frowned, muttering darkly in Russian. "Preparations. The Dark Lord wants you presentable for tonight."

"What, so I'm to take a shower?"

Costinov scowled. "Something like that." He pulled open the door, shoved her through, then slammed and locked it before she could attempt to escape. Before her stood an angry Marsha and a put-out Anita.

"Into the shower," Marsha ordered without preamble, "and quickly. We've a lot to accomplish and you're already late." Her firm grip replaced Costinov's as she ushered Hermione into the bathroom.

"You think she could have at least taken better care of herself," Anita mumbled loudly after Marsha had closed the door. "Did you see the bags under her eyes?"

"None of our concern," Marsha snapped, then pounded on the bathroom door, startling Hermione away from it. "Turn that water on! If you don't wash on your own, we've orders to wash you! You won't like it half so well!"

Hermione scowled at the door but complied. As much as she wanted to continue her fruitless attempts at making trouble, she would probably just be hurting Marsha and Anita more than herself at this point. It would be best to make it easy on them. So she took her time under the hot water and tried to wash the worry away. She startled when Marsha pounded on the door.

"Time's up!" she yelled. Hermione rinsed a final time then turned the tap and stepped out of the shower, wrapping herself in the oversized terrycloth robe. Marsha yanked open the door as Hermione was finger-combing her hair.

"No need to worry about that," she snipped, and dragged Hermione into the bedroom. Hermione wondered absently if she looked like a ragdoll – no one seemed to think she was capable of moving on her own. She had been manhandled more often today than she ever had been in Azkaban.

A woman with thick blonde hair piled high atop her head waited with a sour expression behind a chair. Marsha shoved her into it and the blonde woman took over. She twirled her wand in her fingers as she studied the mass of damp, chocolate brown curls before her.

"Naturally curly, I presume?" the woman clucked. She did not wait for an answer. "Well, it could be worse, I suppose. About an inch off the bottom to get rid of those split ends and then we can get to the style. What is the cut of your dress?"

The question took Hermione by surprise. "I…don't know," she answered lamely. The woman raised a blonde eyebrow and pursed her lips.

"And to think I have worked on celebrities," she muttered. With a sneer and a sharp flick of her wand, a pair of shears whizzed toward her, the cold, blunt ends drawing a garrote-like circle around her neck. Hermione held onto the chair with white knuckles as the stylist worked. After what felt like several hours and entirely too much product, the stylist spun her around to face the mirror.

The mind-blowing transformation Hermione had expected after suffering for so long under the stylist's wand never came. True, her hair was about two inches shorter and dry instead of wet, but aside from that it was mostly the same. No fancy up-do, no sleek, chic chignon… Just her hair, brown, curly, and shining with product.

She reached up to touch it, only to have the stylist's wand rap smartly across her knuckles. "Let it set!" she screeched and stalked away, muttering all the while.

Another woman soon replaced her, carting a large black case that, when opened, revealed every kind of makeup Hermione had ever heard of in every shade imaginable.

Though the makeup artist did not talk to Hermione other than to issue quiet direction, she did not seem outwardly antagonistic either. After about twenty minutes of applying, concealing, and blending, there was another grand reveal. The woman stared at Hermione like daVinci must have stared at the Mona Lisa.

"Perfect," she whispered, and Hermione had to agree, albeit grudgingly. Though she knew she wore makeup, it felt like she wore nothing. Her skin was smooth and poreless, and the heavy, purple bags beneath her eyes were gone. She looked refreshed and five years younger. Her brown eyes shown through the violet-tinted eyeliner and matching shadow, and her lashes were longer than ever before. Her lips were full and pink. For a moment, Hermione allowed herself to bask in the fantasy. _That_ was how it should have been for her. Perfect. Beautiful. Easy. _That_ was supposed to be her life.

The beautician was replaced by Marsha. The fantasy faded. "Time to get dressed." Hermione glanced at the window and was shocked to see that sundown was close. Marsha ushered her behind a changing screen where she was met by a cross-looking Anita holding a few scraps of lace. She tossed them at Hermione, who barely caught them on the tips of her fingers.

"Tell me when you've put them on," she ordered, and stepped to the other side of the screen to give Hermione privacy. She held them before her skeptically: they hardly resembled clothing. She slipped on the panties and blushed scarlet when she realized the larger scrap of lace was a corset with no front.

She quietly called Anita back.

"Brace yourself against this table. I need to lace it." So she did, awkwardly, one arm covering her breasts and the other clutching the edge of the table for balance while Anita tugged the whalebone structure tighter.

Once the corset was laced, Marsha appeared. "Twenty minutes. Get her into that dress." Anita nodded and unzipped the large black bag hanging behind the screen.

The dress was beautiful. Hermione was sure she would appreciate it more if she didn't have to wear it. It was long and black, accented with lace and dark purple trim. The sweetheart top was cut low – the corset made much more sense now – and the back ruffled out in waves, not quite a train, but certainly not falling flat. She stepped into it carefully. As Anita laced it up, Marsha appeared to drape an amethyst and diamond necklace around her throat, and small diamond dangles from her ears. A pair of high, black heels, a spray of perfume and Hermione was ready.

"They're putting in a lot of effort to make me look nice now just to bleed me later," she muttered. Anita made a non-committal noise in the back of her throat and tugged on Hermione's arm.

"You're going to be late," Anita reproved, "and I'm going to get the wand for it. Now move. _Move_!" She tugged at Hermione's arm again, more soundly this time. Hermione stumbled a few steps in response.

"I'm never going to make it down the stairs in these shoes." It was not a complaint; it was a fact.

Anita tugged again and opened the door. "By yourself or by gravity, you'll make it," she snarled, and pushed Hermione out before her. "They're in the Grand Hall. That's down the stairs, take the right corridor, and go through the pair of red doors. And hurry – I don't think they'll like being kept waiting."

And then, without a friendly wish of good luck or attempt at comfort, Anita whisked away, hurrying down the stairs as fast as her legs would allow. Hermione waited until she was out of sight then made her way down too. She gripped the railing and moved much slower than Anita, trying to avoid the "gravity" option of descending.

Her walk was silent and lonely. Her high heels clicked off the marble floors and the fabric of her dress swished in response. She looked around at the paintings, crotchety old things that glared at her and muttered loudly behind their hands, and at the busts, all of Voldemort and all too realistic for her liking. More than anything, she wanted to delay her arrival but the corridor's poorly-restrained hostility hastened her steps. Much sooner than she would have liked, she stood before a pair of red doors.

They towered over her, foreboding and forbidding. She remembered another red door – a door in Azkaban prison – and shuddered. That door took her from a cell to a stage, from a life of physical deprivation and torture to one whose abuses were more subtle but no less damaging. That door had separated her from a world she no longer recognized, a world she no longer believed in. That door had separated her from Draco.

That door had changed her life, for better and for worse.

Was this door the same? It would scar her again, undoubtedly, but how severely? How drastically would her life be upset tonight?

She inhaled a deep, shuddering breath, and felt raw with fear. It took all of her strength to keep from running away and even more to lift her hand to rest upon the golden doorknob. Unlike Azkaban, this was a door she had to walk through herself.

But before she had a chance to turn the handle, both doors swung inward. She gasped and took a reflexive step backward, her hand falling to her side. She clutched at the full skirt of her dress.

The room was certainly grand enough to befit its name, all rich wood and shining gold. A long, oaken table was swathed in white and at each place setting was a full complement of fine, bone white china, polished silverware and sparkling crystal goblets full of claret wine.

But the trappings hardly held her attention. It was the guests, six on each side, who interested her now. Voldemort stood at the head of the table, his eyes shining with delight. His arm was raised toward the doors, as if introducing her to them all. She tried her best to look nonplussed, but could feel her eyes betraying her.

A dozen gazes burned into her, undressing her, picking at her flaws, probing her for weakness. Severus Snape – who Hermione had assumed was dead – sat at Voldemort's right hand and regarded her with the same mixture of apathy and annoyance she encountered at Hogwarts. Bellatrix and Rodolphus Lestrange came next, the former so tense Hermione thought she might snap and the latter trying to hide his wince as his

wife's long fingernails dug into the flesh of his arm. Narcissa wore a strange mixture of unpleasant surprise and mild disgust while Lucius reigned in a sneer. Channing Orman looked more lecherous than she had ever seen him.

On the other side of the table were Resilience members. Brannon sat across from Orman. His expression was rapt with what Hermione could only describe as adoration and… was it love? Longing? Grief? Whatever it was unsettled her. She quickly looked past him. Trundle, Costinov, and Aberjeen regarded her steadily but emotionlessly. Next to Aberjeen was an empty chair – the seat obviously meant for her.

And then there was Draco. He wore black dress robes and his hair was slicked down and parted neatly to the side: a far cry from his everyday, rather shaggy coiffure. His expression was much like Brannon's, though not as wildly conspicuous. His lips twitched at either corner and his eyes drank her in. He sat a little straighter, held his head a little higher, and Hermione drew strength from that.

He had promised her. He had promised her that Voldemort would not hurt her.

She believed him.

Her conviction made it much easier to walk to her seat, the high heels no longer an obstacle. She sat down and stared directly ahead of her, but over the shoulder of Bellatrix. She could hear a low stream of curses emanating from the madwoman's mouth, but pointedly ignored them. Bellatrix had no role in what was to come tonight and Hermione did not intend to give her one.

Hermione remained staring as Voldemort spoke. "I'm sure you all remember our very _special_ guest for the evening. One third of Potter's so-called _Golden Trio_. The one who had the least right to call him 'friend'. She was useful enough to him then, and I daresay we will make use of her tonight. But that is for later. Now, we feast!"

He sat down in a billow of robes. As soon as he was settled, mixed green salad appeared on the plate before her, garnished with dried cherries, walnuts, feta cheese, and vinaigrette dressing. All picked up their forks and tucked in, but Hermione felt nauseous just looking at it. She doubted she could sit through an entire meal like this, just waiting for the end – _her_ end, and the end of everything else.

Draco noticed.

"Eat, Hermione," he prompted, speaking from the corner of his mouth. Though soft conversation had broken out around the table, he kept his voice hushed. "You will need strength for later. Trust me."

"I… I can't," she breathed. Her hands worried the napkin in her lap as her heart raced. Panic reared up inside of her and the situation suddenly felt very desperate. She needed to escape. "Draco, I…"

Smoothly, he dropped his left hand from the table and laid it upon hers, halting her twisting fingers.

"Steady yourself, my love. Tonight is not the night for foolishness." It was not a request. He gave her hand a small squeeze and, in another smooth motion, brought it to rest upon the table once more.

She regarded him from her peripheral vision and picked up her fork. She would not eat – at least not much – but she could pretend. Hopefully that would see her through.

It was easy enough at first, but as the dinner wore on and the wine flowed more freely, Hermione fought harder and harder to maintain control. When Snape talked about his work in America – the Colonies, he termed them – Hermione thought of all that Denise had gone through and resisted the urge to hurl her wine into his face. When Bellatrix absently wondered if Hermione would scream when she died, she clenched her skirt in her fists, crushing the delicate silk and taffeta but successfully avoided stabbing her with a dinner fork. When she reminisced about the last words of her parents over dessert, however, she lost it. Draco's tight grip on her wrist was all that stopped her from killing Bellatrix at the table, magic be damned.

Bellatrix bared a row of yellow teeth, welcoming the fight. Voldemort must have sensed the tension for he chose that moment to rise to his feet. Hermione felt both relief and dread: finally, the dinner was over, but it only meant the start of something infinitely worse.

"My friends," he began and looked around the table indulgently. "Years ago, I had a vision. A world ruled by the worthy. A world where the prosperous prospered, where justice was meted swiftly and surely. A clean world, a _pure_ world… _My world_.

"Once, I thought my dream had been realized, but there were some… _complications_." Voldemort chuckled, and his audience chuckled with him despite the chill in his words. "But my unexpected destruction was a mere setback. The inevitable had not been avoided, simply delayed. Fourteen years later saw me reborn, more powerful than before, more prepared to do what was necessary – what was _right_ – to make my dream, our world, a reality!

"Three years later, and I had succeeded. We have this Mudblood to thank for that."

The room filled with appreciative laughter. Hermione's cheeks flared red and her eyes filled with reflexive tears. She refused to let them fall.

"My friends, it has been three years since Potter's fall. And look around you! See what my vision has brought us! Prosperity! Power! Purification!"

"A fine world, my Lord!" Rodolphus cut in. He lifted his glass, and the rest of the table joined the toast, save Hermione. Voldemort smiled indulgently once more, then spread his arms to quiet the crowd.

"But not a perfect world," he amended. "Imperfect because it is impermanent. Many of you now know that my Horcruxes have been destroyed. I am vulnerable. Weak. Mere flesh and bone! And someday, my friends, I will perish."

"Never, my Lord!" Bellatrix gasped. "Another Horcrux! Surely, you can…"

"I cannot," Voldemort answered calmly, "without exposing myself to death. Death is for the weak. How could I – the most powerful being on the planet – succumb to its embrace? I refused to lose myself to the nether, and yet the thought plagued me, unsettled me! It drew my focus away from the world I had borne, distracted me from my power! I needed a solution – another route to immortality. And, my friends…" He paused for effect. "I have found it."

A piece of silverware rang shrilly as it collided with the china. Several members of the dinner party gasped.

"Tell us, my Lord!" Bellatrix whispered, her words an excited hiss. "Share with us your secret! Let us all live like gods!"

The stare Voldemort leveled at her was bone-chilling. "You presume too much, Bellatrix," he snarled softly. "My secrets are my own. But I will confide that part of the secret sits at this very table." He turned his red eyes to Hermione and Draco, as did the rest of the guests.

"No! The Mudblood, my Lord? That filth!"

"Part of the key to my longevity," he smiled, baring his teeth. "Ironic, no? The _filth_ I have worked so hard to control will be contributing to my continued survival. And she has helped me dearly once. Her blood will help me once again, but perhaps not so willingly this time."

He passed his hand through the air and a chalice appeared in the empty space. It was silver and unembellished save for a ring of runes carved an inch below its rim. Wide and deep, it emitted a thin plume of white steam.

The room stilled and the lights dimmed. Voldemort turned toward Draco and Hermione.

"Rise."

Draco obeyed. _Had_ to obey. But she did not.

"Our Lord has given you an order, Mudblood bitch!" Bellatrix cried. She drew her wand with astonishing speed and the soft whoosh of a spell seared the silence. Bellatrix flew from her chair and landed several yards away with a thud, her body slamming against the wall. She was silent but conscious and struggled to sit up, apparently having taken a greater blow to her pride than to her body. Voldemort's wand pointed to where she had been sitting.

"Her blood shall be spilt only for me this night, Bellatrix!" His high-pitched voice shattered the intense silence. He turned to Hermione again. "_Rise_." She remained seated, looking nowhere, everywhere, anywhere but at him. Voldemort chuckled. "Well, if it takes some convincing…"

Hermione braced herself for pain, but Voldemort turned his wand on Draco instead. She watched in horror as Draco crumpled to the floor, almost gracefully. But then his face contorted in agony and his body curled in upon itself. The grace was gone, replaced by excruciating pain. Lucius gasped, Narcissa whimpered in pain, and Hermione felt her legs jerk her upward, rising so quickly that it seemed to surprise him. The curse ended.

"Gryffindors," Voldemort spat in delight. "So wonderfully predictable."

She ignored him, stooping to help Draco, but Voldemort had lost his patience. With a flick, Hermione was airborne and a moment later she stood on his right side, her legs locked into place. Draco had staggered to his feet and stood on Voldemort's other side, looking weak but relatively unharmed.

Voldemort twisted his wrist delicately and a long-bladed knife materialized in his palm. Like the chalice, it was silver and simple with runes etched into the thin blade. The flickering candlelight danced over the razor-sharp edge and a thrill raced up her spine.

"Draco, if you would." Voldemort offered him the knife, hilt first. Draco took it without hesitation.

"Yes, my Lord." Slowly, deliberately, he drew the knife across the skin of his palm. His eyes never left her face, but Hermione's gaze was drawn to the crimson blood pooling beneath his clenched fingers. He turned his hand over swiftly, palm down, and opened it over the cup. As the blood dripped down, so did something else.

Something white. Something powdery.

The fine substance floated softly, innocently into the goblet, and disappeared in the steam. In a gesture so minute Hermione was not sure it even happened, Draco twitched his forefinger. A flash of white flew up his long sleeve. Her eyes shot a question to his, but they were unreadable silver. He held out the knife to her. Her mind was suddenly so full of questions that she took the dagger on mere instinct. She stared at the knife dumbly, and then looked back at him.

Draco understood at once. He took a step closer and held her left hand in his. Quickly, he slashed her palm. She watched in mute horror as the blood gushed, then pooled. Suddenly Voldemort had her wrist, and Draco's, and then their bleeding palms were pressed together. Draco hissed a quiet curse and his eyes widened with fright. Then his face changed entirely, indescribably elated.

And then Hermione felt it. Heat and energy, magic in its purest form, spread from the wound in her palm. It filled her hand, all the way to her fingers, then rushed up her arm. Her heart and the heat raced in tandem through her body, down her limbs, into her organs, into her senses. It flooded her brain and took her features for its own and in that moment, she knew ecstasy as never before. Every cell in her body tingled and shivered with change. Her very essence shifted and she felt like she was more than herself, more than just _one_ being.

In that moment, she felt as if she were _two_.

Distantly, she heard a gasp – or maybe it was a shout – and Voldemort cackled maniacally as their mingled blood dripped into the goblet. The steam changed from white, insubstantial wisps to puffs of grey, unpleasant smelling smoke. He dropped their arms. Once their palms disconnected, Hermione came to herself again, the tingling shivers abating. But there was still a change. Something different… Like she had been rearranged.

Voldemort grasped the chalice in both hands. Hermione moved around him to Draco, who pulled her toward him as soon as she was within reach. He shoved her into her chair and pulled out his wand. Cool water flushed out the wound and Draco cursed quietly. The room seemed to spin and Hermione moaned. Draco cursed again.

"Stay with me, Hermione," he pleaded under his breath. "You'll be fine. You'll be fine."

"Dizzy…" she said vaguely. The room took another tumble. Had she really lost so much blood?

"_No_!" he hissed, and swore again. The cool water continued to rush over her skin, which tingled where it met Draco's. Blood continued to drip down her fingers, splashing onto her dress and the floor in diluted droplets.

She was dimly aware of Voldemort's speech ending. He lifted the chalice and light danced across its rim. The runes flashed and moved, changed before her very eyes. With a looked of unadulterated glee, he raised the cup to his lips and drank.

"You must stay with me, Hermione!" Draco's voice traveled as if through a fog, but every sense she possessed sharpened instantaneously as a thin shaft of wood was pressed against her thigh. Even through the folds of her skirt, she could feel the familiar thrum of energy. Not daring to breathe, not daring to hope, she slowly moved her hand so that it covered his. He withdrew and Hermione's fingers wrapped around the impossible.

_Her wand_.

Another bout of energy blasted through her body, clearing somewhat the haze that had enveloped her mind. Spell after spell, curses, countercurses, hexes, jinxes, transformations, transfigurations… Her brain an arsenal and she was ready for war. But Draco did not move his hand far. He held her right wrist tightly, almost painfully, so that her wand was trapped against her thigh. She glared at him, her eyes promising bodily harm, but he did not see her. His shining eyes were on Voldemort, waiting. Expectant.

The entire table erupted into applause. The roar of it filled Hermione's ears, as did the sudden scraping of wood against marble as people stood, cheering, raucous with praise. The room spun again, then time slowed. Everything suddenly came into focus, crystal clear before her wide brown eyes.

Voldemort basked in the ovation, blood staining his lips crimson, as he smiled his terrible smile. But slowly – so slowly – his expression faltered. He raised a hand to his throat and tugged at the collar of his robes. He cleared his throat softly. Then louder. Then louder still.

The applause continued.

He reached for a glass of wine, coughing now. Hacking. Gasping. Wheezing. His airways constricted. His oxygen was threatened, then was gone.

The hall grew silent as Voldemort fell to his knees. He clawed at his throat, his long fingernails tearing his skin, leaving bloody trails that streaked down his pale neck and into his robes. His pathetic, shallow gasps halted abruptly and, with the last ounce of his strength, Voldemort turned his bulging red eyes to Hermione. There was an unmistakable flicker of comprehension and subsequent disbelief.

Then he fell facedown onto the marble floor, not moving and certainly not breathing.

Simultaneous gasps of pain tore from all attending as their tattoos burned hot. Several gasped in horror as the black ink faded from their skin. No one questioned what the change meant.

Voldemort was dead.


	25. Ch 25: The Resilient

**Author's Note**: This chapter was very difficult for me to write for a lot of reasons, though I've made peace with it now and hope that you all enjoy it. A HUGE thank you to my beta, who has been extraordinary through this whole process.

**The Resilient  
**

The eruption Hermione expected at Voldemort's fall never came. There were no shouts, no curses, and no explosions. She did not need to duck behind her chair to escape multiple green rays of death or sprint toward the doors like escape was her only chance of survival. No one even moved.

At least, not for a full thirty seconds.

Then there was an incomprehensible scream of outrage and grief, high, piercing, and guttural all at once. It was Bellatrix. She launched herself across the room, not at Hermione but at Voldemort's supine body. She rolled him over as if he weighed nothing, and her long, bony fingers fluttered over his corpse. Then she grabbed fistfuls of his cloak and started to sob as if she had lost a lover, not a Lord.

Most eyes in the room stared at the mad, crying woman on the floor. Severus Snape, however, stared at Hermione as if she had announced that _she_ was going to be their new Dark Lord. She held his stare defiantly. Slowly his gaze shifted to Draco, whose resolve was just as firm as hers. Hermione recognized the flicker of comprehension behind his beetle-black, expressionless eyes, and stiffened. Then he spoke, his tone cautiously calm. "It would appear the Dark Lord has been assassinated."

This was the fuse that triggered the explosion and Hermione, inevitably, was the target of the blast. Cries and accusations flew at her from all sides, and not a few wands were leveled at her chest. Hermione took a reflexive step backward, fighting – not very successfully – the impulse to turn and run.

"Her dirty blood has poisoned our Lord!" accused Rodolphus. His wand shook visibly from shock and rage. Bellatrix's wails had evolved into a long, drawn-out screech, repeating a single, damning phrase.

"Murderer! Murderer! Mudblood murderer!"

"Mudblood bitch!" Channing Orman was at her side so quickly he might have been standing there all along. He looked at her with homicidal fury, arms outstretched and hands clawed. Whatever piece of sanity that had been holding him together finally snapped, revealing the psychopath underneath. "You killed our Lord, you little whore, and now I'll kill you!" It did not matter that he was wandless; his cold, hooked fingers found their way around Hermione's throat regardless. She could do nothing – not breathe, not speak, not even move. All she could do was wait for death at his hands.

A flash of pale blue light seared, crackled, and struck Orman square in the temple. He crashed to the floor with a loud thud. Hermione stumbled away from him and drew a great breath. Ozone saturated the air; she had never smelled anything so sweet.

She cleared the reflexive tears from her eyes and saw Orman clearly. His face was frozen in a furious half-shout, as if he had been petrified in the middle of a scream. His body looked ready to snap; Hermione thought she could hear the tendons and ligaments straining to keep everything connected. His brown eyes were open but unfocused. That was what chilled her most. For so long, she had lived in fear of those unpredictable, hate-filled orbs. To see them now, so dead and dull, was surreal.

The room was suddenly tense and silent save for Bellatrix's noisy sobs and the creaks and pops of Orman's tortured limbs. Draco gripped her arm and turned her toward him, shaking her out of her bewilderment. She tore her eyes away from the prone, now convulsively twitching man to the one who had felled him.

"Are you alright?" His voice was gruff and demanding.

She nodded, her eyes wide and awed. "Draco… What did you do?"

Draco's upper lip twisted into a teeth-baring grimace, but his eyes conveyed a meaning deeper than his answer: "I fixed it." She looked once more at her fallen tormentor, caught deliriously between horror and happiness. She hardly noticed when Draco let her go.

He clapped once. A house elf appeared at his side. "Take this piece of filth away," he ordered, nudging Orman with the toe of his shoe, "and fetch the coroner." The elf nodded and disappeared with a crack.

"What gives you the right?" Rodolphus protested at once. "You're the youngest one here! Surely Snape or myself, someone who has served him more faithfully! The Mudblood-"

"Silence, Rodolphus!" hissed Lucius. "The elves have bent themselves to Draco's will! There is no sense in arguing!"

"But-"

"He's right, Lestrange." It was Costinov. "He has worked closely with our Lord. The elves recognize his authority and will not identify another master until ordered to do so." He shot Draco a furtive look. "I do not think Malfoy will give that order."

"Not tonight," Draco agreed tersely. "Your patience, please, Rodolphus. This must be settled now. And I think we can all agree that, while she is a convenient scapegoat, Granger is not responsible for killing our Lord."

"But her blood! The girl-"

"Has no access to a wand, Rodolphus," Draco interrupted, "and even less experience with Dark Magic. But the rest of us are not so fortunate. Let us all retake our seats and await the coroner."

Rodolphus looked as if he was going to argue further. The Resilience members and Draco's parents took their seats after only a moment's hesitation, and Snape followed soon after. The odd man out, Rodolphus lost confidence in his argument and reluctantly sank back into his chair. Bellatrix remained on the floor, inconsolable. After a moment, muted conversation began. Once Draco saw that no one was going to leave, he turned to Hermione and spoke so that only she could hear.

"You have to go, _now_. Once you're out of sight, flush your wound with water. Don't ask why," he snarled, heading off her question. "Just do it. Make sure no one sees your wand. Then go to the dungeons. Accompany the servants to the cellar and lock them in for the night. And yes, you can tell them what happened," he snapped again before she could even think the question. "After that, go _directly_ to my room. Lock yourself in. Admit no one. I do not want you involved in this."

His tone left little room for argument, but that had never stopped her before. Just as she took a breath to speak, Draco cut her off. "This is no time for a power struggle. Go. Now. And hurry!" He shoved her away from him.

Hermione took a few hesitant steps backward but at the stern set of his lips, turned and left the Grand Hall as quickly as she could without running. As soon as the red doors were out of sight, Hermione ducked into the space behind a suit of armor and cast her first spell: _Aguamenti_. The glorious feel of the magic far outweighed the stinging pain in her hand. The nausea and dizziness she had felt mere moments before drifted away with the blood and water. Once she felt steady enough, she watched in fascination as her skin knit back together, the result of another silent spell. Then she stripped off her shoes, lifted her long skirt, and broke into a run. She tore through the château, egged on by adrenaline, darting through hallway after hallway until she reached the dungeons.

Pushing aside the bad memories, she burst through the door and ran down the stairs.

"Voldemort is dead," she announced, cheeks rosy with exertion. She did not bother to hide her glee. The crew exchanged puzzled, disbelieving looks. "I'm to take you all back to the cellar." Without waiting to see if they would listen, she hurried up the stairs and trekked the familiar path to her old quarters. The servants filed past her one by one, completely silent. It was not until she closed and locked the door that she heard them cheer.

Hermione allowed herself another smile, but did not revel in it. She needed to get to Draco's room. Hoisting up her skirts once more, she continued her sprint through the château. She did not slow until she was safely barricaded behind a series of wards and locking charms.

She leaned against his door, heart pounding, and for the first time since she left the dining hall, allowed herself to think.

She had her wand.

Voldemort was dead.

The world had righted itself in the span of an evening.

The realization sent her spinning into sensory overload and Hermione surrendered to the mania. She laughed and cried and tore the beautiful, wretched dress from her body, shredding the delicate fabric with fingers and wand alike. She screamed in satisfaction as the corset fell away, leaving her bare breasted in the empty room, scraps of silk and taffeta still hanging about her waist.

Slowly, she lifted her wand, marveling at the feel of the wood grain between her fingers, relishing the tingling energy that filled every crevice of her body. She felt like a goddess, beautiful and terrible. _Vengeful_.

The wand moved by itself, an extension not of her arm but of her very _being_. It flicked, twisted, spun, and waved. It pointed, flung, and twirled. It created complex patterns in the air, each running into the next, combining in new and powerful ways that she would never be able to replicate. She had no target yet targeted everything, and the contents of the room shifted, flew, exploded, transformed, shrank, enlarged, disappeared, multiplied, and crashed accordingly.

Time was meaningless and when she came back to herself – minutes later? Hours? – Draco's effects had been torn into pieces. The bed had been reduced to a pile of fluffy down, ragged cotton, and broken wood. The wall separating the bathroom and bedroom had disintegrated and the contents of the closet were hovering expectantly in midair. The wardrobe was missing entirely.

Her chest heaved; suddenly, she felt very weak. Scrapes and scratches from the shrapnel marred her bare skin. A few bled freely. She sealed the shallow wounds as best she could and transfigured the lace and silk shift into a pair of modest silk pajamas. Then, with a broad sweep of her wand, Hermione set the room to right. Draco's wardrobe reappeared, the clothes hung themselves up, the bed reformed, the wall reconstructed itself and everything was back to normal, perfect and untouched.

But nothing was back to normal. The realizations hit her again, one after another, knocking the breath out of her.

Voldemort was dead. Actually _dead_.

She had reclaimed her wand.

And Draco had put something into that cup other than his blood.

She sank down onto the bed and surrendered again, not to mania this time but to emotion. Her fear and confusion were nothing compared to the joy she felt, the utter, elated relief that made her dizzy and nauseous all over again. She sobbed uncontrollably, choking with hysterical laughter. Her sides ached and her body was desperate for oxygen, but she couldn't stop, even when black spots dotted her vision. She didn't _want_ to stop. It was over now, all of it. She had fought for survival and she had won. Despite the circumstances, despite the torture and abuse, she had won. She had _survived_.

Her sobs eventually tapered off, her breathing quieted, and the joy gave way to restlessness. She checked the clock: ten p.m. She had no idea what Draco was doing or when he would be back. For a wild moment, she considered leaving the room to find him and demand an explanation. She was armed now, after all, and a better witch than most despite being years out of practice. Her hand rested on the doorknob, but she could not bring herself to go further.

Draco had sent her here because it was dangerous for her elsewhere. Rodolphus' accusations and the pressure of Orman's fingers around her windpipe were not memories she would soon forget. And she was sure that, once Bellatrix came to her senses, Hermione would experience another brush with death. Draco had stolen her away from death's grasp before, but tonight? When the situation was so unpredictable? Hermione sighed; it would be unwise to tempt fate.

She retreated to the bed and tried to think the situation through. Tried to slow down the action and force it into a cohesive panorama. One that made sense. One that was actually _possible_. But the more she pieced together, the more things fell apart. For example, it _was_ possible for Draco to get back to the Dragon's Keep sometime this week to synthesize that mysterious white powder. He had certainly had enough time. But how did he get the supplies so quickly? Certainly a Pureblooded wizard purchasing Muggle chemistry supplies in bulk would attract attention.

Another issue was that the laboratory had obviously been there for a while; its construction was not an impulse decision. But that meant Draco had to have planned to administer the powder – the poison? – sometime in the future, which meant that he had to plan to get close to Voldemort, which meant that Hermione accidentally revealing Resilience to Voldemort served an actual purpose, which meant…

A pounding headache accompanied her sudden nausea. She could not think of what that meant. Didn't dare to.

But her insistent mind would not let the subject drop. Whatever she suspected Draco of doing, whether good or bad, it would do her little good to jump to conclusions before she knew all the facts. It would be just as damaging to her psyche to pin down erroneous reasons as it would to deal with the million hypothetical questions whizzing around her brain. She needed a distraction.

With an absent twist of her wand, she conjured a small flock of sparrows. The action was automatic and she blushed, ashamed that she had grown so used to life without her wand, that she had forgotten a piece of herself. She smiled as she sent the sparrows flitting about the room in formations. When she tired of that, she grabbed a small crystal paperweight and practiced her transfigurations, working her way from invertebrates to vertebrates with every animal she could think of as her subject.

When she next looked at the clock, it was close to midnight. The sparrows had settled atop the wardrobe and slept peacefully, their beaks tucked beneath their wings. The pure white rabbit she had been transfiguring from dog to rabbit and back again looked thoroughly annoyed. Hermione vanished the birds and relieved the crystal paperweight of its rabbit body. Then she yawned.

The bed was comfortable and warm, but when she shut her eyes there was nothing but questions and suspicions, images of a dead Voldemort and a convulsive Orman, and a desperate desire to talk to Draco. Hardly a mindset conducive to sleep.

Then an idea struck her, an idea so simple and elegant that she was ashamed to not have thought of it sooner. It was her human form that was giving her so much trouble, her human mind that besieged her with questions. But the simplified brain of an animal… Of a fox…

She pointed her wand at her face. The transformation worked immediately and completely. As a human, Hermione's emotions were too numerous and complex to figure out. As a fox, she was content just to have her life and a soft place to sleep. She padded across the duvet to the foot of the bed and curled up, facing the door. With another yawn that bared her small, sharp teeth, she tucked her nose under her tail and closed her eyes.

Around two a.m., the doorknob rattled. Hermione's sensitive ears picked up the sound at once and she roused quickly. It was not fast enough, however. Draco had already broken her enchantments, stepped inside and re-warded the door by the time she was standing.

He looked at her and sighed, smiling wearily. "I always thought your Animagus form was beautiful. Very fitting."

Hermione cocked her fox head at him and his smile grew. With a lithe motion, like water flowing over stone, she was human once more.

"You look like hell," she stated softly, tracing her fingers lightly over his cheek. Draco chuckled but did not take offense. How could he when it was true? His pale skin was drawn and dark circles ringed his eyes. His once-coiffed platinum hair stuck up wildly in some places – a sure sign that he had been running his fingers through it: an indication of stress that Hermione knew well. She wrapped him in her arms.

Draco buried his face in her neck and closed his eyes. She knew that he wanted nothing more than just to crawl into bed and sleep. But she knew that she could not let him. She needed answers and no matter how guilty she felt, she would have them tonight.

"I was worried about you," she confessed quietly, stroking his hair.

"Everything is fine," he said, his breath warming her neck. Hermione thought she heard the hint of a smile. "More than fine, actually. Here, I need to show you something." He strode over to his window and threw it open. Then he whistled, soft and low. After a moment, she heard the soft flapping of wings. A large eagle owl swept into the room, followed closely by a familiar barn owl.

Hermione gasped as the third impossible exploit of the night occurred. "Amaris?" The owl hooted uncertainly when Hermione held out her arm. She hesitated a second and then climbed carefully onto the proffered limb. Hermione's heart lifted as the owl's familiar weight settled on her forearm. She lifted the owl to her face. Amaris nibbled her nose affectionately.

"I made arrangements," Draco explained while Hermione cooed at her reclaimed familiar. "Atreo – my owl – led her to Malfoy Manor before the battle began. She left for a night, no doubt to find you, then came back, not knowing where else to go. I've cared for her ever since."

Hermione tore her eyes away from her old friend to stare at the man who had achieved the impossible. "And my wand?" she managed to choke out.

"The moment it flew out of your hands during the battle, I summoned it. It would have been destroyed otherwise."

Hermione stifled a sob and managed a sincere, "Thank you."

Draco nodded. "Let's sit down." Hermione said a reluctant goodnight to her owl and watched her fly away. Then she joined him on the bed, sitting cross legged and dragging a pillow across her lap.

"Voldemort is dead," he said without preemption. Hermione flinched in surprise: Draco had said his name! "Poisoned," he continued, ignoring her. "The coroner arrived not a minute after you left. She performed a full scan on him and determined the cause of death: it was a Muggle substance called potassium cyanide. He died almost instantaneously of asphyxiation."

Hermione nodded and narrowed her eyes. Coming to terms with Voldemort's death was a simple and joyous exercise, but its cause and manner were another story. The strange hidden room in Draco's tower laboratory, the Muggle equipment, the neatly labeled plastic containers… There was only one explanation. And now, with Draco before her, was the only time she could allow herself to admit it.

"You killed him." It was not a guess.

Draco met her eyes, gauging her reaction. After a long moment of silence, he answered her. "Yes. You saw my laboratory."

That wasn't a guess either.

He nodded and smirked. "I should have known. The day after, when you said you had _seen something_. I was afraid you would give it away."

"You should give me more credit."

"We were lucky. If he Legilimized you again, we would have been killed. I also hoped you wouldn't notice the delivery into the goblet."

"Draco, I'm not blind."

He chuckled. "It seemed to fool everyone else. Are you feeling well?"

A piece clicked into place. "The dizziness…"

"The poison getting into my blood was inevitable, but I've built up a bit of an immunity to it. The dose I slipped into the goblet was ultra concentrated. I never meant for it to hurt you."

"I'm alright now," she said, perhaps a bit too weakly as Draco looked unconvinced. "Does anyone else know it was you?"

He frowned. "Snape suspects something, but hardly a day goes by where he _doesn't_ suspect something. But he's clever; I think he'll keep quiet until he works out how he's affected by the change. If anyone else suspects me, I don't know about it. I'm not sure it matters anyway. The issue has been… settled."

She waited for him to go on. The way he said it and the deep furrows in his brow indicated that there was more. But he was not forthcoming. "Tell me," she demanded softly, though she thought she had an idea of what it could be.

"It was easy enough to throw suspicion off myself. I had nothing to gain by killing him and everything to gain if he lived: power, wealth, the honor of my blood running in his veins… But chalking it up to coincidence was not enough for Bellatrix." He spat her name as if it was an oath. "She demanded retribution. I denied her, said that I would be launching an investigation. She never had much patience or respect for due process. I turned for a second to talk to Aberjeen and then she was gone. It wasn't hard to follow her path of destruction – shredded tapestries, splintered frames, new holes in the walls – but by the time I reached the cellars, it was too late."

The news hit her like a hammer to the gut. "How many?" she whispered, her voice hoarse.

"All," Draco said. He choked on the word. "All of them."

Hermione drew a deep, shuddering breath. Denise, leverage over the president of the United States. Marsha Scrimgeour, whose only mistake had been to marry a righteous man. Anita, a supposed blood traitor who would not submit quietly to totalitarian rule. Leonard, a man without a past. Michael and Alexander, innocent members of the British royal family. All hostages of a madman, victims of a war they had not wanted.

"There was nothing I could do," he continued quietly, hollowly.

"You should have incapacitated her," Hermione countered, feeling nauseous once again. "Once she recovered from the shock you should have taken her wand and put her in chains. That's the only way to control her."

"It's not that simple…"

"Why? Why isn't it that simple? Stop evil people from doing evil things, Draco. _That_ is simple. _That_ is what you should have done. What you should have been doing this whole time!"

"And what makes you think I wasn't?" he said sternly.

And there was the heart of the matter, what Hermione had suspected but not dared to hope for.

"Malfoy, what have you done?" Draco straightened at the use of his surname and his eyes grew as cold as her tone.

"I did what was needed, Granger. I did what was needed to kill Voldemort." After a minute of silence – which was a minute too long, in her opinion – he heaved a sigh and sat upright. "I'm going to tell you everything, Hermione. You deserve it. But you have to know that, through it all, I did what I thought was right. And please, for the love of Merlin, let me get through this. It's going to be hard enough to tell without interruption."

Hermione considered for a moment, and Draco looked so pleading and beaten that she acquiesced with an annoyed, "Fine."

"Thank you." Draco took a deep breath and settled against the headboard. "You know my reason for betraying you. You know the choices I was presented, the path I chose to walk, and the regret I've lived with since. But what you don't know is how this changed me.

"When I made my decision, I knew how it would end. I knew that, if left unaltered, your life, and my life with it, would be forfeit. I wasn't lying when I said I couldn't live without you, Hermione. It was a possibility I at once refused and was forced to consider. If Voldemort had killed you on the battlefield, I would have killed him myself right after. I thought that was what would happen and I was prepared. I dreaded losing you, but the idea of immediate revenge and an equally swift end to my pathetic, empty life sustained me.

"Imagine my surprise, then, when he asked _me_ what to do with you instead. An entire avenue of possibilities opened up before me. It was like we were being given a second chance at life. Because I couldn't ask him to kill you, Hermione, even if it meant his death soon after. It would have changed everything, I know," he said in response to the aghast look on her face, "but I couldn't watch you die. I couldn't martyr you. I couldn't stand that your last thought of me would be laced with hatred. So I sent you to Azkaban under a false name where you were placed in a low security cell. I knew you would have the best chance of survival there. It was just another weakness, just another example of my selfishness, but I can't bring myself to regret it. It kept you alive.

"That night… That first night you were away from me…" He shuddered at the memory. "I destroyed everything. I tore my life apart, tore myself apart. I was in agony but I knew it was just a shadow of what you felt. I couldn't stand it. I didn't want to live anymore, but I couldn't take my own life. As long as you breathed, I knew I had to keep breathing too. Because as long as you were breathing, I had hope. Hope that I had strength enough to save you, that you had strength enough to endure it. Hope that I could fix it – all of it.

"The first thing I did was master Occlumency. Soon, not even Voldemort could get past my defenses. Then I began my work.

"Voldemort's rule was unstable at first. Not only did the Muggles rebel, but there were also enough good wizards out there who refused to bend to his will. After a year of torture and death, however, even the strongest men caved. But they did not surrender fully; their support was no more than a survival tactic. It was the same thing I had done. I knew that if these wizards were anything like me, then they would want to change it. They would want to fix it too.

"It took blackmail, bribery, and the better part of six months to assemble the group you now know as Resilience. It was difficult: I had to pick men who worked for Voldemort but not closely enough to attract attention. And they had to be loyal. Costinov, for instance. A Pureblood and director of the chateau's serving staff. He was close enough to hear gossip from the more prominent members but inconspicuous enough to avoid an encounter with Voldemort. He also has a Muggle wife back in Russia and two fully grown daughters, who are both witches. He acted as my eyes and ears in the castle. In return, I arranged it so his wife was registered as a halfblooded witch, thus making their union, and their daughters, legitimate and safe."

"How did you do that?" Hermione asked. Draco quirked an eyebrow at the interruption, but she didn't care. "How did you fake the bloodlines?"

"Ah," Draco smiled. "Easily. The Malfoy family is one of the oldest in the wizarding world and my ancestors kept good records. They were also not keen on sharing. Our library holds the most extensive collection of wizarding genealogies in all of Britain, but the texts are private: only a Malfoy can read or alter them. Despite the obvious problem – that Malfoys are notorious liars – the genealogies are not questioned."

"That seems foolish, to place so much trust in one family."

"It was. Voldemort was slipping. In the beginning, he was so sure of his own invincibility that he ignored everything that wasn't an immediate threat. When Resilience first met, I told them that. Assured them of it. Despite the evidence, they laughed at me. Told me I was crazy. Several threatened to leave. But the more I talked, the more proof I offered, the more interested they became. Soon, we had bi-weekly meetings to brainstorm how we could kill him."

Hermione shook her head. "No, I was there for the first Resilience meeting. I was eavesdropping. I heard them elect you their leader. How could this have-"

Draco held out a hand to silence her. "Let me continue. We considered assaulting the château, but its wards are ancient, nearly impenetrable. We could have hired foreign hit wizards to attempt a public assassination, but Voldemort rarely made public appearances. And contracting outside help was risky anyway – a secret isn't a secret if everybody knows it. We needed someone on the inside, someone who could get one of us close enough to Voldemort to do something – anything – that might kill him.

"That, unfortunately, is where you come in. I told them about you, you see. Everything. I had to in order to gain their trust. And they all knew that, while I wanted to exterminate Voldemort, my main objective was to free you and keep you safe. Smithe – the American – oversees Azkaban. The wizarding prisons in the United States are brutal and efficient," he explained in response to Hermione's quizzical look, "and Smithe ran them all. He has a flair for cruelty, which is why Voldemort had him brought over. And his son is a Squib – no better than a Muggleborn – which is why he agreed to help me. As a favor, he told me you were still alive. What he wasn't sure of was if you were still sane. So he hired a doctor to perform exams on all prisoners."

"I remember that visit…" Hermione muttered darkly.

Draco frowned and his voice dropped an octave. "I objected to him. Another doctor – _any_ other doctor – would have been preferable. But this was the only one we were sure was self serving enough to take his due and keep his mouth shut. Once he reported to me that you were in acceptable mental health, we called a meeting. Trundle introduced a piece of legislation – the slave initiative – and set up the Azkaban auction.

"Once you were with Brannon, we started to plan. From Costinov, we learned that one of Voldemort's human servants was ill. He would need to be replaced eventually, and by someone interesting. We knew Voldemort was a collector, and Aberjeen suggested that the last member of the Golden Trio would be too tempting a trophy to resist.

"I fought him. I fought them all. Aberjeen still has the scars. We had just freed you from Azkaban, I argued. It wasn't right to throw you to the snakes again so quickly. You couldn't handle it. You weren't ready. But they knew our history. They used it against me. Suddenly _I _was the one being blackmailed. _I_ was the one being bribed." His voice shook and he reached for her hand. "I didn't want that for you. I never did. But I was outnumbered."

"You could have left." She tried to remove her hand from his grasp but he held on tightly.

"Could I have?" He whispered. "I'm not so sure. Brannon had you then, and leaving them would have meant leaving you. And they would have used you anyway, ready or not. So I stayed. You would be our insider, yes, but I would make sure you were as prepared as you could be for it.

"Our first hurdle was to introduce you to Resilience's cover story. I knew you would never give Voldemort information willingly: your reticence would force him to Legilimize you. That, oddly enough, was our opening. If we could convince you that Resilience was important enough to remember, it would only be a matter of time before Voldemort found the information. That would give us a way in. It was all we needed from you, and it worked."

"Barely," Hermione cut in. "What if I had never asked Bra-" she choked on the name. "_Him_ to go upstairs? What if I never eavesdropped?"

"He would have let you go upstairs eventually; the bastard was infuriatingly slow to act on the group's behalf. As for the eavesdropping…" Draco shrugged. "It was a gamble, but one I felt was in our favor. You're naturally curious. After a few meetings, you would have listened. We were just lucky you did it sooner than later."

"So then you took me to the Keep," Hermione continued. "Why did you bother with the training? If you wanted me to expose Resilience to Voldemort, Occlumency just would have gotten in the way of that. And why not just tell me the plan? It would have simplified everything."

"I had you learn Occlumency to protect you and Resilience from others. Voldemort was a strong Legilimens and, with time, I believe you could have kept him out. But filth like Orman could perform Legilimency, too. Not very well, but well enough to leech information from unguarded minds. If Orman had discovered your secret…" They both shuddered at the thought.

"And to answer your second question: we kept you in the dark to keep you safe. Smithe and Draunet were more than willing to let you in on the secret, but Voldemort would have read the truth in your thoughts. You had to bear information about Resilience's cover story _only_. You needed to let him think that we were an undercover group working for the betterment of his world. You needed to be innocent. That's why we kept you ignorant."

"So the cooking? The self defense?"

"The cooking reminded me of potions: I thought you'd enjoy it. I thought the self defense would be useful in dealing with Orman."

"You were right."

Draco frowned and Hermione was grateful he did not ask for an elaboration. "The rest you know," he continued. "Nott came for you, Voldemort found you, you led me to Voldemort."

"The Fountain of Youth?"

"Nothing I could ever have predicted, but perfect for what I needed to do. His death needed to be public so that suspicion did not rest on one person. The feast was public enough. I'm just glad it was not larger – even with the Resilience members and my parents, it would have been a tough fight for us to win."

Hermione blinked in surprise. "Your parents knew what you were doing?"

"Mother did. She knew the night after the battle that I had changed: it was in her eyes. It did not take her long to figure out why. Father only suspected, I think."

"He didn't stop you?"

Draco gave her a considering look. "You know my father as heartless and cruel. For a while, that was all I knew as well. But he cares about my mother, deeply. He'll do anything to see her smile, even if it meant keeping you alive. So he stayed out of my way, directed agendas as necessary… He helped, in his own way."

"And that's it?"

He laughed. "That's it. That's everything. Now you know the truth."

"I'm free to ask questions?"

"You've been doing so all along despite my request."

She ignored the gentle reproach and sat back, replaying all she had heard. Her brow furrowed. "Everything seems so straightforward. Impossible and improbable, but easy enough to understand. But there's one detail that doesn't make sense. Why Brannon? If Smithe oversaw Azkaban and Trundle set up the auction, what stopped you from taking me away?" Though he had worn a frown for much of the evening, the lines around his mouth deepened still. He looked more unhappy than Hermione had ever seen him. She felt like she was about to hear something they both would regret.

"Ask something else," he said thickly. "Anything else." Hermione set her chin; Draco paled. After a moment, he cleared his throat, though it did him little good. "I had to let him take you." His voice was weak and distant. "I didn't have a choice."

Her anger flared red and hot as the memory of the excuse seared through her mind. Before the battle of Hogwarts, before he Stupefied her and put her in Azkaban, when he visited her at Brannon's party… "How dare you?" Draco recoiled as if slapped. "How dare you use that excuse on me again? What was the problem this time? Was there another woman you had promised to bid on? Or was I simply not worth one hundred Galleons?"

Draco's mouth twisted into a fierce snarl and his silver eyes sparked with indignation. "Don't insult me like that."

"Then don't _you_ insult _me_. Tell me the truth."

"The truth?" He let out a short, sharp bark of laughter. "The truth is that there was _never_ another after you. The truth is that you're worth every vault in Gringott's to me. The truth is that I made a mistake. One that I would do anything to forget. One that nearly killed me."

His tone fell from sardonic to tortured in less than ten seconds, and the change was so abrupt that it left Hermione feeling guilty for goading him.

"The man you called _Master_ is named Thomas Brannon. He is one of the most unfortunate men I know. Though he was a year older than me, we were childhood mates. Our fathers were business partners. We saw each other every year until Hogwarts. Though he went to Durmstrang, our lives were very much the same – our worldviews, our loyalties, even our futures, though neither of us knew it then.

"When he was sixteen, Brannon went on holiday to Italy and fell in love with a Muggle named Adelina. He wrote to her constantly, visited her every holiday, sent me letters oozing with happiness, describing everything about her. How she looked, the way she talked, her grace, her compassion… She knew he was a wizard and, despite where he came from, they eloped as soon as he turned seventeen.

"But then his father found out what he had done… How he had _soiled_ the family name. Brannon was prepared to give up everything for her – prepared to die for her – but his father reached her first. He could do nothing but watch it happen…" Draco's voice cracked. "He died that day too. He dedicated himself to Voldemort afterwards, just going through the motions. Surviving, not living. When Voldemort took over, Brannon was put in charge of monitoring Apparition across Britain. It was how we were able to meet in secret without raising eyebrows: Brannon could make it look as if the meetings never happened. He was integral to our group.

"He was also almost its downfall. I knew about Brannon's past, knew how losing Adelina destroyed him. It was my story too. And I thought he would want to avenge her memory, destroy the man who destroyed her. That's why I recruited him. I thought I would have an ally, a man who knew more about my pain than anyone had a right to. I thought I could trust him, him above all others."

Draco broke off and buried his face in his hands. The next three words seemed to cost him everything.

"I was wrong. Brannon changed that day. He lost himself, became someone, some_thing_ different. A few months into our scheme, he approached me. He threatened to expose us all, to turn us over to Voldemort. I offered him everything I could – money, influence… He made me swear an unbreakable oath: anything he wanted. I agreed.

"And then he asked for you."

For a moment, Draco lost control. He clapped his hand to his mouth to stifle the escaping sobs, sounds of a loss that was still fresh, a gaping wound left unhealed. Hermione trembled, trying and failing to ignore the loud rushing sound in her ears and the pain stabbing at her heart.

"I was there that night, Hermione," he confessed through gasping breaths. "I saw him take you."

The confession punched a hole through her chest and pain – _physical _pain – exploded around it. The room careened as she clutched the pillow tightly, trying to stay upright. She fought for breath but the air was too thick and cloying. Her head spun, her heart disintegrated, and logical thought escaped her. There was only one fact now, only one aspect to the epic that had been the last three years.

Draco had let her go.

He had watched in silence as another man bought her body. He had watched as her future became nothing more than a strange man in a dark dungeon. Velvet and incarceration. Lace and rape. He had not stopped it from happening. He had done nothing.

A pawn.

That's what she was.

A pawn.

Just like she had thought.

She rose from the bed. He let her go.

"You looked right at me," he whispered, his grey eyes faraway and full of agony. "Seeing you again after so long… It was like a Stunner to the chest. But the way you fought, the way you spat at the auctioneer and glared out at all of us… I'll never forget how proud I was in that moment. You were still _you_. Still stubborn, still perfect. And there I was, still selfish, still despicable, still ruining your life. I've never hated myself as much as I did that night."

"Why me?"

Draco could not meet her eyes. "You look like her. He wanted a piece of her back. And I think he wanted to damage someone like he had been damaged. The woman he loved died; the woman I loved was alive. But when he took you, Hermione… When he _bought_ you and took you away with him…" Draco's entire body shook. "I could imagine his pain. I wish I could do my life over again and change it all, but if I could only change one thing, it would be to never have let you go to him."

Hermione could do nothing but let the waves of realization wash over her. Brannon had lied to her. He had never been her protector. He had been her jailer, her _rapist_, and nothing more. Yet she was forced to pity him. Pity him! He who had forgotten pity, and mercy, who had listened to her beg and silenced her cries! Her _Master _– an epithet! A curse! – was more selfish than Draco and more twisted than Orman. He had stolen everything from her and, without question, she hated him for it. Hated him to the depths of her soul. But this loathing, as intense as it was, was just a fraction of what Draco's confession had triggered.

It was an earthquake. A violent upheaval of the foundation upon which she had built her new life. It was the soiled stone floor of Azkaban, the dark cold walls of Brannon's cell, the infinite ceiling of Draco's tower. It was all rubble now. Ash and smoke and oblivion. She could hear the pounding force of its disintegration. Could smell the rotting stink her once-impenetrable stone fantasy had hidden for years. Could feel the weight of her lies – _his_ lies – crush her until she was as insignificant and ugly as the world that had been built around her, and twice as ugly as the one it had been hiding.

She was silent for a long time.

"Damn it, Hermione. Say something."

She turned her eyes to his slowly. "What do you want me to say, Draco?" she asked him evenly, trying not to choke on the emotion she held back. "That you did the right thing? That I forgive you?"

"No. I don't want any of that. I don't deserve-"

"Then what? What is there to say? What more do you _want_? I've given you everything – my body, my trust, my love, my _life_. It's never been enough. And now you ask for more?" She laughed mirthlessly. "There's nothing left anymore, Draco. I'm empty. There's nothing else for you to have."

"That's not true," he whispered ardently. He rose and took a step toward her. "You know that's not true."

Her fortress may have repelled the lie once, but its crumbled walls let it pass through unimpeded. She was surprised at how much it stung. "Don't tell me what truth is! Not when you don't even know yourself! What's true is what's _happened_. And what's happened is this: you sold me out to protect yourself and bought me back as soon as it was safe. But not for good. No, you bought me back just long enough to build me into your own, personal weapon, and then you sent me away again. You _used_ me, Draco! You lied and manipulated and played your part perfectly, I might add. Too well, in fact, because you made me believe it! You made me believe that what you were doing was for my own benefit. You made me believe that you cared about me, that you _loved me_, when all you really loved was yourself and your damned agenda!

The fire in her eyes blazed hot and Draco flinched away, burned. She continued her invective.

"And do you know what the worst part is? The part that I can't stand? It's that I _understand_. _I get it_. The destruction of my life, of everything I claimed as my own, served a higher purpose. I _see_ the role I played in helping to kill Voldemort. I _know_ what I did. And the noble part of me? It _rejoices_. What is my life when compared to those of an entire population? If I had to sacrifice myself for the good of so many others, so be it. I'd do it again without hesitation. Because I _am_ that noble, Draco. I _am_ that good. And losing myself to save the world is something I can live with.

"But what I can't live with is the _means_. What I can't live with is _you_."

Her tears fell freely, and she was surprised to see that Draco was trembling as much as she was. "That's not how this is, this isn't how I meant it, it's not what-" He reached toward her and she backed away from him just as quickly.

"I can come to terms with what's been done to me with time," she continued steadily, "but I don't know if I can move past _how_ it's been done. My life may be nothing when compared to several million, but it's still _my _life. I still have to live it. Saving the world may be a balm, but it is far from an instant fix. I'm _damaged_, Draco. Irreparably. And it's your fault."

"I know."

"You _what_?" Her incredulity incensed him and his trembling abated just long enough for him to mount a defense.

"I said I know! I know what I did to you. I know the hell I put you through and what it cost you, because it cost me the same. Hurting you was like hurting myself, Hermione! I can't begin to describe what kind of torture it was to have you so close and so far away! To know what you were going into and being powerless to stop it!"

"You weren't powerless!"

"I was! Brannon held your life in his hands and then Resilience commandeered you the moment I thought I could get you back! They backed me into a corner and still I couldn't see another way to kill him! I didn't see another way to fix it! And that left you! If I was cleverer, wiser, I could have found a way around it, but the window was there and we had to take the risk! I didn't want it. Taking your life wasn't my intention when I first put you in Azkaban, but that's what happened. And the regret I feel burns through me _every single day_. What I did was unforgiveable. I knew it then and I know it now. But I can't bring myself to regret Voldemort's death. I can't."

"I'm not asking you to. I'm just…" Hermione buried her face in her hands. "I'm so confused. I don't know what to feel. What to believe. I'm so _tired_. I'm so… So _broken_."

The admission was soft and hollow. She had tried so hard to let it not be the truth, had tried to remain whole for herself, for the memory of her deceased family and friends, for sheer pride. But she had failed. She was one million little pieces scattered by the wind. As insignificant as a grain of sand on an infinite beach. Shattered. Undone.

"Will you let me pick up the pieces?"

His words were no more than a shuddering whisper, but Hermione heard them as if he shouted. The memory was there before she could stop it. The salty ocean wind. The frigid autumn air. The dark water churning below her, tempting and repellant. And Draco, rolling her away from the edge. Draco, his body the only warmth she had felt in days and his words the only hope she had felt in years. He was there for her. He always had been. He always would be. Tears streamed down her cheeks.

"I don't know if you can," she confessed.

"Let me try. Hermione…"

He stepped toward her and took her hand, the one with the scar. An echo of the magic that had raced through her blood at the feast pulsed through her veins again, and with it, a deep, almost subconscious understanding. In a moment so fleeting it was almost indescribable, she knew what it was to be Draco Malfoy. In that instance, she knew him, knew everything about him, saw into his very soul. Her pain doubled, tripled, increased so quickly that her knees buckled. Draco crashed to the floor with her. He leaned against her as if she was his only support, and she did the same, physically unable to hold herself upright. He was her pillar just as she was his.

His breath on her neck came in hot, frantic puffs, and it was a minute before either of them could move without the help of the other.

"What happened to us?" she asked weakly. "At the feast, when our blood combined…"

Draco's body shuddered violently and Hermione was hit with a fierce spasm of pain that made her gasp. He wrenched his hand away from hers. The tingling disappeared, the pain abated, and Hermione fell back, chest heaving.

"Noticed that, did you?" Though still breathless himself, Draco's tone was sharp and angry. "If you value your sanity, and mine, you will not ask again. Not right now. Not tonight."

"_What happened_?" she snarled, gasping.

He rose to his feet laboriously and turned away from her. When he spoke, it was in a mockingly lofty tone. "The _magic_ of the Malfoy blood is stronger than that of our wands. It has the power to protect, to seal contracts, even to form bonds. And there is a certain bond between a man and a woman… A bond that forms when matched souls meet… When the blood of each runs thick and fierce with love for the other…"

Hermione had struggled to her feet too but now, as the room teetered, she wished she hadn't. This was the grain of sand that tipped the scales, and everything was out of balance. "_No_," she breathed. She did not realize she was backing away from him until she hit the wall. He had not turned to face her yet.

"Congratulations, Mrs. Malfoy." His laugh was bitter and joyless.

She could not speak. She could not _breathe_. "Did you…" She choked on the words, unsure of whether or not she even wanted to know the answer.

"Know?" He finished for her. His head dropped. "Yes. But our blood was not to be shared tonight. Combined in the goblet, yes, but never vein to vein. That it did was a mistake… Voldemort's final act of cruelty."

"Were you ever going to tell me?"

"Of course. Of course I was. I just didn't think tonight, with all that has happened…"

"You're a coward," she hissed. "You haven't changed at all."

"I have, I've tried-"

"Divorce me, then. Divorce me tonight. I don't… I don't want this."

"I can't," he growled. "Once blood is shared before witnesses, the oath is made. It is, by nature, unbreakable. We will always be connected."

"I never even had a choice," Hermione realized quietly, her voice thick with grief. "The one decision that should _solely_ mine is still made for me."

"You think I wanted this?"

"No, but it's awfully convenient, isn't it? For you? The woman you _love_, bound to you forever, whether or not she wants to be?"

"That's never what I wanted, Hermione, and you know that! What I want – all I've ever wanted – is for you to be happy. To be free!"

There was her opening. "Do you mean that?"

Draco hesitated. "I do."

"Then you know what I have to do."

It took only a second for Draco to understand what she meant and in that second, the man Hermione knew – the man Draco had been for the past three years –disappeared. The fight that had kept him standing tall and proud rushed away. The evenness and control of his face and voice vanished. He looked like a man who was sure he had reached rock bottom and was then thrown a shovel. Like a man who was certain he had nothing more to lose only to learn that he had been utterly and hopelessly wrong.

"I've lost you so many times," he said huskily. "I don't know if I can survive another. I need you… I need you with me. Stay. _Please_."

"There's too much between us. I can't even _think_ straight. I need time. I need _space_."

Every second she spent under the scrutiny of those tortured steel eyes weakened her resolve. She turned away from him, unable to face the damage she had done. He gasped again, a single word: "_Please_." She pretended not to recognize his pain, pretended that it did not send a dagger into the remains of her heart, that it did not make her feel like a murderer.

His breathing was shallow and uneven and, after several minutes, when Hermione had still not turned around, he spoke very quietly. "If this is what you desire, it is what you shall have." Then he inhaled a deep, shuddering breath. After a full minute, he spoke. His voice was wooden and robotic, too tightly controlled to last. A fragile façade. Hermione wanted to be gone before it collapsed entirely. Out of her peripheral vision, she saw him place a piece of parchment on the table near the hearth. "Here is a list of every Malfoy estate on the planet. Go elsewhere if you must but I beg you, for my sanity, start there. You will always find peace and protection beneath a Malfoy roof."

Hermione turned and grabbed the parchment without meeting his eyes. She skimmed it; there were over twenty properties listed.

"By right, half of my fortune is yours, as is every resource I can lay claim to. There are personal safes in each house. You will find the keys and combinations when you arrive. Use it and do not hesitate. It's the only thing I can give you now."

She shook her head. "No, I don't want it. I never wanted-"

"I don't care!" His composed mask fractured. "This is what your bond with me entails! _This_ is the price of freedom!" He threw a handful of Floo Powder onto the embers. A green fire blazed to life and burned away his sudden anger. In its place was the feeble, damaged Draco, the one that made her sick to her stomach. Just as broken as she was. Just as irreparable. "I swear not to look for you once you've left," he croaked, shaking. "You'll never see me again."

"But you'll never leave me."

He shook his head. "Never."

"I owe you my life." Her voice was hoarse and final. Each word was a blow. Each sentence an execution. It was too late – too late for them both. There was no going back now.

"No… " Her tone dissolved his resolution. Draco's mask collapsed and Hermione witnessed the destruction of a man. But she did not stop. Could not.

"But I can't let you have it."

"Please, Hermione… Please. _Don't_." He stepped toward her, reaching, desperate for her touch, her reality, a taste of her certainty.

She shook her head, unyielding. "I've been noble for far too long. It's my turn to be selfish. But I'll never forget you, Draco."

"_What can I do_?" He grasped her upper arms tightly, but the bruises didn't matter. She shrugged away from him.

"Let me go. Take responsibility. _Be resilient_."

"No. No, Hermione, you don't understand. _I can't_."

"You will. You _must_." She reached up and cupped his cheek with one hand. He closed his eyes, tears leaking from each corner, and leaned into her warmth. Hermione shuddered. "Don't hate me for this," she whispered.

His eyes remained closed. "You know I never could." He gasped as Hermione's palm dropped away from his face. His silver eyes opened.

In that moment, as their eyes locked and he witnessed her truth, it became absolute. His hands loosed and fell to her wrists, then her palms, where their scarred skin met fleetingly. She felt his anguish, his desperation, his desire, and his grief. She felt his hatred and his loneliness and his regret. But most of all, she felt his love. She felt his love and it burned into every crevice, every niche, every cell and every atom of her body, and filled her with such disgust that she stepped away from him.

Then her world was an inferno. Spinning. Roaring. Changing.

And then he was gone.

And then she was collapsing onto an unfamiliar and cold marble hearth, crying soot-stained tears. Pain tore its way through body, her heart, and into her soul, devouring her from the inside.

And then reality finally hit and Hermione realized what she had done.

What she had done was goodbye.

And that goodbye was forever.


	26. Ch 26: Four Years Later

**Author's Note**: So we've come to the end of it all, I'm afraid. This is technically part one of the epilogue, but I won't make you wait (long) for the conclusion. More later. For now, enjoy!

**Four Years Later**

Nestled in almost the center of the Aegean Sea, the Greek island of Naxos is subject to the meeting of high and low pressure systems. This difference in pressure causes strong winds called the Meltemi, which can last for as little as one day to as long as five. And while the gusts are at times noisy and occasionally cause structural damage to the island's older buildings, most of the locals regard the coming of the northern winds as a good omen; a sign of summer. Summer meant tourists, which meant revenue for the small, coastal cities.

The winds were a sign of change.

What they meant for Hermione Granger were longer lines at the fish market, streets so crowded she could hardly walk a straight line, and a significant increase in noise in the small bookshop-café hybrid at which she worked.

And though she was going on her fourth summer on the small island, the Meltemi still fascinated her. A particularly strong gust could make her forget the lines and the crowds and the noise and sometimes, when they lasted over a day or two, she felt like they could even take her places. Places she had left long ago. Places that she had tried, and failed, to forget.

The Meltemi blew strong today, well into its second day of gusting. This was not necessarily unusual for mid-June, but more a trademark of early July. Hermione navigated the cobbled streets easily despite the throngs. One arm curled around a brown paper bag; the other held her wide-brimmed hat onto her head. She was thankful she had chosen not to wear a skirt: did not have enough hands to worry about her decency _and_ her groceries.

The walk from the market to her small, second story apartment was a short one, but it was all uphill. She unpacked her groceries and looked at her calendar: she wasn't due in for work until the afternoon. That would give her just enough time to visit Amaris and read the paper. She readjusted her hat and set out into the sun and heat once more.

The walk to the Apparition point was much like the one to her apartment: uphill. But instead of cobbled streets smoothed by time and weather, the route was a small gravel path, lined closely on either side by short scrub brush and for years used only by goats and other wildlife. By the time Hermione reached the small copse of trees, she was sweating though it was still morning.

The discomfort of Apparition was quickly over, replaced by the discomfort of increased altitude. The Malfoy _Spiti_, as Hermione had come to call it, was situated atop a small mountain. It was more of a hill, really, but it was high enough so that her ears popped every time she arrived. She stepped out of the copse of trees and stopped in her tracks.

Like the wind, Hermione had never really gotten used to the beauty of the _Spiti_. The Apparition point was far away enough from the house to give her a full view, and below it as well, lending the _Spiti_ the air of majesty it so rightly deserved. It was set naturally on the side of the hill, like it had simply grown from the granite instead of being built. A steep stone stairway led past a modest pond stocked with lilies and native fish, a well-shaded outdoor picnic area, and a fully stocked wine cellar that was built into the hill itself.

Not far beyond that, light grey stone rose two stories high and finished in a roof of darker grey, wherefrom three chimneys rose – two attached to a working fireplace, the third to the sizable and fully equipped kitchen for ventilation. It was generously windowed and each of the frames was made from medium-stained oak, creating a pleasant contract with the lightness of the house. The architecture was dynamic and pleasing, including wide balconies overhung by arched stone roofs, stairways with wrought iron rails, and a small pool and sunning deck in the back. The _Spiti_ was equally beautiful in sun, rain, and fog, and never failed to take her breath away.

It also never failed to rouse memories of the man who owned the dwelling. She let those wash over her, too: a wave of guilt, nostalgia, and love. She did not stop them. Had not even tried, in fact, for four long years.

Once she recovered from the flood, she continued up toward the beautiful house. The doors opened at her touch and she was submerged in the luxury of a climate-controlled environment. She loved the sun and the heat, and spent most of her time out of doors. Understandably so: after surviving for so long behind an inch of glass in inadequate candlelight, the outdoors was like a fantasy land to her. A playground, a safe-haven, and a luxury. But when the weather was humid and sweat trickled uncomfortably down her back, the cool air was inexpressibly wonderful.

As was her routine, Hermione hung up her hat, shook out her hair, and climbed the wide marble staircase to visit Amaris. The owl had taken residence in the main bedroom, much to Hermione's amusement. Her favorite perch was the top left bedpost and – having no care for the cost of a duvet – had soiled the bedspread most spectacularly with feathers, droppings, and regurgitated pellets. With a flick of her wand, it was clean again and not for the first time, she imagined the elder Malfoys' reaction to an owl in their bedroom. It hardly mattered: they would never know. Hermione gave her sleeping companion a few quick pats, to which Amaris opened a bleary eye in acknowledgement, and left her to sleep.

It had taken a while for Hermione to adjust to being apart from her familiar so soon after they had been reunited, but the need for discretion was greater than her need for company. The Muggle village in which she settled had its share of superstitions. None of them concerned owls, to her knowledge, but she did not want to start one. Not to mention that a non-native bird flying to and fro every night would certainly raise questions.

Hermione didn't like questions. They had asked plenty when she had first arrived. Who was she? When did she arrive? How did she get there, when the weather was so dreadful that night that no boats dared cross from the mainland? What did she want? And she could do nothing but lie. She was Jean Grange, a university student who had traveled here for an anthropological experience. She had arrived late at night a few days ago when the weather was fairer, had hired a boat from the mainland and no, she couldn't remember the captain's name. And what she wanted was work and a place to sleep.

That last answer was the truth, but the beginning of her story was very different.

After collapsing on the Malfoys' cold, unfamiliar hearth, she had screamed and cried and raged with the weather, which had matched her own violence almost perfectly. She felt empty and miserable and so utterly _alone_ that she nearly drowned in it. Amaris's arrival brought her back from the brink. There was reason to survive, yet. There was healing to be done.

She spent the next few days recuperating and battling with her conscience. Should she take from the Malfoy family vault? It was her blood-right; Draco had given her permission, had practically _ordered_ her to. But she was already indebted to him enough. Adding _money_ to that debt picked at her pride most unpleasantly and strengthened the guilt she felt.

In the end, however, she caved. She had nothing – no money, no clothes, and no marketable skills other than being a well-read and powerful witch. A little money would set her on her feet and at least give her food and a place to stay, as she refused to even consider lodging at the _Spiti_ for any longer than strictly necessary. She also packed a suitcase of clothes and toiletries, as she owned neither. The magnificence of regular showers and proper attire alleviated any guilt she felt about that.

Once she felt like herself, she cast a translation charm so that she could actually talk to people. It was an imperfect spell and did not account for local dialects or slang, but, when combined with rudimentary sign language, it worked well enough. She located the designated Apparation site using a map the _Spiti_ had so thoughtfully supplied her and made her way into town. Finding an apartment was not difficult: several families had rooms they rented out to summer vacationers, and they were more than willing to take on a permanent boarder.

Finding work was much trickier. The _Spiti_'s safe had provided her with identification – it was easy enough to modify the picture and signature to match her own – but she was still a woman without a past. She could not supply references and refused to site cleaning Voldemort's chateau as "previous work experience." She had been denied at the grocer's, the curio shop, and the local pub. In fact, she believed that the only reason she got the job at Café Lyceum was because she frightened man who ran it – an old, hobbled fellow known only as Homer. She had been close to tears and rattled off synopses in quickly-deteriorating Greek to every book she pulled off the shelf. After five minutes of this, he disappeared, driving Hermione to the edge of a full-scale meltdown. When he forced a cup of coffee into her trembling hands, the crisis was averted. She finished the brew, thanked him profusely, and showed up the next morning at eight a.m.

It had been a relatively easy life after that. She lived in her small, rented apartment but visited Amaris at the _Spiti_ almost every day. Eventually, she repaid the money she took from the Malfoy vault (though she had a hell of a time getting the vault to actually accept the payment…) and bought clothes of her own. Most of the island residents still considered her an outsider, so she had no problem hiding the truth of who she really was. Her long walks and frequent disappearances were taken as private character quirks and not something that any of them wanted to get involved in. Hermione had more privacy than she could have dreamed, and she flourished in it.

A clock chimed somewhere on the first floor as she continued down a short hallway to best room in the entire villa. It was large, open, and copiously windowed. Plants were strategically placed for optimum sunlight exposure, as were plush chairs and loveseats for the novel enthusiast. Ornate but tasteful pieces of art hung upon the walls and several sturdy tables boasted the most beautiful Grecian sculptures Hermione had ever seen. She was sure most, if not all of them were antiques from the ancient cities. She did not even want to consider what they cost, or how the Malfoys had acquired them.

At one end of the room was a large sliding door which allowed access to a spacious balcony equipped with two chairs and a small table. She settled into her favorite chair and picked up the scrapbook beside it. She had barely lifted the cover when an owl alighted onto the iron railing. It dropped its delivery – which was none other than the Daily Prophet – onto the table and hooted at her dolefully.

"It is a bit windy out there, isn't it?" she murmured, stroking the owl's head with her finger. It hooted again in response. She conjured a bowl and filled it with water, offering it to the bird, who gladly accepted the refreshment. Then she dropped some currency into its leather pouch and it took off to battle the wind once more. "Until tomorrow," she promised quietly.

Slowly, deliberately, Hermione reached for the paper. She had taken a subscription to the Prophet the day after she arrived and read it cover-to-cover without fail. Though she didn't like admitting it, it had become her favorite part of the day.

At first, it was an arduous task. The articles were obviously censored and it enraged her to read about the "tragedy of our Dark Lord's demise" and the "heinous group of misfit servants" who had committed this "atrocious crime." But gradually, in pieces so subtle Hermione doubted many others noticed, the pro-Voldemort articles disappeared. More news was reported on the conditions of Azkaban prison, the atrocities committed by owners of Muggle and Muggleborn slaves, and the disrepair of the British government, both Muggle and Magical.

Old laws – like the slave initiative and the wand restriction policy – were abolished, as was any legislation that could have further segregated the Magical and Muggle communities. Hogwarts was reinstituted and once again accepted all students, no matter their parentage. A large fund was created for the housing, reunification, and rehabilitation programs for the displaced, lost, and injured. There was more, too – so much more – but behind it all was one unifying force.

Draco Malfoy.

If his name was not mentioned outright, then it was hinted at so obviously that it could not have been anyone else. It was clear that he had been the one to free the press, and they reported everything without impunity. And Hermione kept it all. Every article, every feature, every blurb… She cut and pasted them all into the scrapbook at her elbow, which she had to magically expand several times within just the first year of the Prophet's reporting.

It had become her obsession, but it also had helped her heal.

It had taken a while for her to come to terms with the fact that the man she loved had not only lied and manipulated her for his own gain, but also allowed her to fall into the hands of someone he _knew_ would mistreat her. The rational part of her brain told her that this was okay. His mission was threatened and his goal was more important than her life. More important than _his_ life. She knew that. She _understood_. Quite frankly, she might have done the same.

But that didn't make it less painful.

Draco had played her like a fiddle and damned if she didn't produce the exact notes he stroked. She felt betrayed, almost overwhelmingly so. She was _furious_ at him for hurting her and indignant that he presumed he could. His arrogance, his conceit… Hermione didn't even think it was possible for either to exist in such high quantities as they did in that man. She gave a wry chuckle: he never _did_ cease to surprise her.

But her anger was tempered by the articles. They helped her see the bigger picture and, after about two years, she began to almost feel okay about being used so thoroughly.

_Almost_.

Then, in her third year of self-imposed exile, the trails began.

Draco had seen to it that every Death Eater suspected of crimes against humanity was arrested and put on trial, including himself. Most of the Death Eaters were harshly – albeit fairly – punished, either with sentences to Azkaban or the surrender of their wand and permanent exile. These trials were fairly short given the sheer volume of evidence and witness testimony against them.

Draco's trial was different. Though many were eager to forgive him considering what he had done for them since, he insisted he be tried like everybody else. And he was, with one exception: every single word of his trial was reprinted in the Daily Prophet, including the role Hermione had played.

She had never been so grateful to be in Greece.

The public's reaction – never middling – was fierce in its support of Draco and the Resilience members. Hermione was praised as a hero and, despite Draco's protestations, a nation-wide search for her began. To her knowledge, it was on-going, though she read little about it now, and she was infinitely grateful to Draco for keeping his peace. His sentence, predictably, was lighter than it would have otherwise been: he and his family were ordered to pay reparations, as were the members of Resilience, instead of going to Azkaban or being forced into exile. They were also required to continue their community service until the Wizengamot felt they had paid their debt to society, though perhaps, Hermione sometimes thought, it was society that was indebted to them.

How he accomplished all of this without retaliation she would never know. In the early days, she feared she would see a picture of his corpse on the front page and that all the work he had begun would fall to pieces. The years passed, however, without any genuine attempts on his life. It was too good to be true and Hermione had stopped worrying so fiercely about it.

She should have known that getting comfortable was all it took.

The Meltemi gusted as she unrolled the paper. At once, her heart ceased to beat. Splashed across the front page, in damnable black-and-white, was a photograph of Draco. He stood at a podium alone. In the background were several Resilience members and a few men Hermione did not recognize. He opened his mouth to speak and then a streak of light flashed across the page, like a bolt of lightning traveling in slow-motion. The spell hit him squarely in the chest. His face flitted from surprise to a contortion of pain, and finally relaxed in unconsciousness. The headline below read, "**Assassination**."

The paper fell from her hands as the Earth stopped spinning. It took a long moment before she collected herself enough to snatch the paper back up. Her frantic eyes scanned the article quickly, looking for key words: St. Mungo's, critical care, investigation.

Blood rushed to her brain.

Draco was alive.

For now.

Somewhere in her mind, way in the back and buried by blind panic, was the knowledge that her next action (or inaction, as the case may be) would be pivotal. The repercussions of this choice could change her life, could change _several_ lives, and possibly not for the better. Seeing the man who had hurt her in so many ways, and who she had hurt in return, could not be anything but painful. Considering their bond, their blood-and-soul deep connection, she expected it to be downright excruciating. And she was scared to death of the million "what if" questions all struggling to be heard in her overcrowded mind.

But that recess held another bit of knowledge, too: that she had to go. That Draco's death would mean a story left unfinished, a wound left unhealed. That seeing him alive one last time would give her some closure, even if it was just a glimpse before he took his last breath. The "what if" questions didn't matter, never would matter, and if she hesitated any longer, she would lose her nerve.

So Hermione _chose._

She did not need to think. She barely needed to breathe. She ran from the balcony, flew down the stairs and skidded into the sitting room. She did not worry about Amaris: she was a clever owl and could find her later. She did not worry about her clothes: the Keep would provide. All she worried about was enunciating her destination clearly enough so that the Floo system would send her to the right place, a task altogether too difficult due to her trembling body.

She tumbled out of the hearth before she had even stopped spinning into one of the Dragon's Keep's many sitting rooms. "Dobby!"

The elf appeared before her swiftly and barreled into her legs, clutching at her knees and sobbing.

"Mistress Hermione! Dobby is so g-glad Mistress is home! But the M-m-master! M-m-master Draco! Mistress!"

She detached the elf from her legs and knelt to be on his level. "Is he alive, Dobby?" She took the elf by the shoulders and gave him a small shake. "_Is he alive_?"

"Yes, Mistress, but Dobby is not being told anything! Dobby is not hearing how the Master is doing! Dobby is not knowing, Mistress! He is not _knowing_!"

Hermione's brain suddenly cleared. She was his wife… kind of! She could go to Mungo's now! They would have to tell her what was happening. It was her right! She turned and was about to grab another handful of Floo powder, but her body shook so severely that she ended up knocking the porcelain urn to the floor, where it shattered.

The noise steadied her, bringing her back to rational thought. She shook herself. No. What was she thinking? She wasn't ready to go to St. Mungo's. This was not the way she wanted to see him, all overwhelmed and frenzied. She needed to prepare for him and the onslaught of memories he would bring. She still needed time.

Feeling more settled, she looked around her. The Keep's study had not changed. Bookshelves full to bursting, stately leather couches, wide windows with shining glass panels. She both hated and loved it: the Keep felt like home in a way that her apartment, the _Spiti_, and indeed the whole of Greece never could.

Loud, hiccoughing sobs distracted her and she looked down at the hyperventilating elf. "Dobby, relax. Breathe." Her voice was calmer than she expected and perhaps because of that, or because it was an order, Dobby's sobs abated. "Are you alright?" The elf nodded frantically. "Okay, just… just be quiet for a moment. Let me think."

Dobby obeyed but did not slacken his grip around Hermione's legs. As she saw it, she had three choices. Option one: she could leave. She could order Dobby not to say anything, Floo back to Greece, and pretend like she had never come here in the first place. Maybe that moment between when she read the news and when she bolted to the Floo was a fluke. Was she ready for this? She had healed, yes, but how much? Was it enough? Would it ever be? Leaving would be easy. She looked at the grandfather clock: there was still time to make it to work as well, though Homer had managed well enough without her before.

But would life really be easier? Undoubtedly, Greece was wonderful. It was beautiful and spacious, and she answered to no one but herself. She had a steady job, a modest apartment, a small savings, her owl, her wand… Everything she could ever hope for after the hell she had been through. But was it _enough_?

As soon as she thought the question, she knew its answer.

No.

It wasn't enough. It would never be enough. It wasn't because she was alone or unhappy – she dealt well with solitude and, for the most part, was content with her life. Perhaps that was the problem. _Content_. Not happy, not excited. Content. Not challenged, not striving, not working. Just content, floating along like algae on a sea current. She had settled into a routine, which helped her in the early days, but now she was wasting. She did not want some grand adventure or even daily excitement. But she wanted more than a simple life on her own. She wanted… Draco?

He was option two, and Hermione wasn't sure if it was an option she necessarily liked. Loved, yes. She didn't think she could ever stop loving him. But it wasn't a violent passion, not something that brought her to tears every time she thought of it or reduced her to a pile of whimpering, quivering female. It was a deep-rooted love, complex and frustrating. Undying and a little ugly. Misshapen, perhaps. Malformed. It was a love that had weathered more than it was meant to. A love that had been beaten and rebuilt more often than it should have been. A love she wouldn't have traded for anything.

A love she wasn't entirely sure she wanted to embrace yet.

Which left option three: not thinking about it until she had to. Sticking with the decision she made and not overanalyzing. Procrastinating, essentially, and not acting at all like her usual decisive, structured self. And why not? It was obviously better than returning to her beautiful but humdrum life in Greece and much less painful than considering staying with Draco.

"Dobby, all you alright?" The elf hesitated then nodded. "Well enough to help me?" she pressed.

"Whatever the Mistress Hermione needs," he squeaked. Silent tears still streamed from his eyes.

"Very well, but if you feel like a task is too much to handle, don't do it. Okay?" Dobby nodded again. "Thank you. Now, I'm going to be moving back into my old room."

Dobby's sobs started afresh. "Dobby is so happy Mistress Hermione is staying with him again! Dobby has missed her so!"

She had to smile and knelt once more to wrap the small creature in a hug. "I've missed you too," she confessed quietly. Then she backed away, looked into his large brown eyes, and spoke earnestly. "We need to get everything ready for when Draco returns. His entire room must be cleaned from top to bottom. Floors swept, windows washed, linens turned, everything dusted. Then I want you to go to St. Mungo's and beg the Malfoys for an update on their son. I want you to go every day. Get me as much information as you can. I want to know everything. But don't tell them it's for me. I don't want them to know I'm back yet."

"Dobby will do this, Mistress. He will!"

"Thank you. And," Hermione added, "restock his potions ingredients. I'm going to be spending a lot of time in that laboratory."

"Yes, Mistress!" Dobby's tears had more or less stopped. He seemed to do better when he had something to distract him from his grief. "Thank you, Mistress!" He Disapparated with a crack, leaving Hermione alone.


	27. Epilogue: The Forest

**Author's Note**: Welp, this is it, friends. The final chapter. I hope you enjoyed the story. I know there were some rough patches and some long, loooong waits, but you stuck with me. I hope it was worth it. I'm humbled and flattered by not only the time you all have taken to read, but also the reviews that a fair few of you have chosen to leave. Your encouragement has pulled me through my own rough patches and your feedback has made me a much better writer. So thank you, truly.  
I have to extend a HUGE thank you to my MNFF betas! Lucilla_Pauie beta'd much of "Aversion" and about half of "Resilient", and CoolCatElly picked up where she left off and saw this fic through to its end. I'm fully convinced that these are two of the greatest people in the world. Their advice has been invaluable and their patience legendary. Thank you!  
Finally, a few of you have asked for a short piece from Draco's point of view while all this was going on. Well, ask and you shall receive! It's called, "Masks" and should be on my author's page now. I heartily suggest reading it AFTER the epilogue as spoilers will abound. Obviously. Hahaha  
Thank you all, again, for everything. I'm sure many of you are curious about my post-"Resilient" plans, and I'm happy to announce that I am working on another chaptered fic, which I hope will be significantly lighter than this one. No idea when it will be done, but whatever. Point being: you haven't seen the end of me yet. ;)

**Epilogue: The Forest**

The first few days were tense. Dobby reported back to her with nothing but apologies for the lack of new information he had gathered and the promise of severe punishments for his failures, which (of course) she expressly forbade. All anyone knew was that Draco was in critical condition. Healers were unsure of whether or not he would survive. Hermione told Dobby not to worry, that he was doing great, but found it immensely difficult to trust him. Not that Dobby would lie, but anyone talking to him might. It took all of her restraint not to Floo to St. Mungo's and check for herself.

On the fourth day, however, he came to her brimming with delight. "They is telling Dobby that Master Draco is no longer in the woods! The Master will live, they tells Dobby!"

She asked him about how badly he was hurt, about what spell had cursed him, but Dobby had nothing else for her. That information was accessory anyway. Draco would live. That was all she needed to know.

Having that anxiety lifted from her shoulders made her work in Draco's potions laboratory much more pleasant. She had combed through his extensive library and learned everything she could about countering the effects of curses, hexes, and jinxes. She read about antidotes and field amputation – though she doubted she would need either – but there were a few chapters on wound care and dressing changes that she thought could be helpful. She had also found a few recipes for novel healing potions, which is exactly what she wanted. The rest of her days were spent brewing these potions and testing them thoroughly on an unfortunate spider she had found lurking in a corner.

Over two weeks later, Dobby appeared in her laboratory positively skipping. "Master Draco is coming home! They is bringing him to Dobby and Mistress!"

Hermione nearly dropped the vial she was holding. "When?" she asked urgently.

"Tomorrow!"

Her heart skipped a beat. _Tomorrow_. After four years, she would see him _tomorrow_. Reality hit her hard then and confronted her with the questions she had ignored. But it was still too soon to consider them. She had to stick with the plan. No overanalyzing. Anything that came after… Well, she would slay that manticore when she came to it.

"Just like we discussed, Dobby," she said with a smile that was perhaps a little too forced. Dobby seemed not to notice.

With a toothy grin, he disappeared. Hermione finished the potion she was brewing – luckily for her she had started early – and bustled around the Keep to make her own preparations. She popped into the kitchen to inform the elves, who patiently informed _her_ that Dobby already had and could she please move away from the oven, the bread was going to burn. She grabbed several unused glasses from the cupboard and was soon on her way.

Though the Keep did not have a proper greenhouse, Draco had attempted to keep a small garden. It had not done very well; Hermione suspected that he had little patience for flowers. Despite its dismal quality, it had yielded two decent bouquets, which Hermione artfully arranged in the glasses-recently-turned-vases. She placed both in Draco's room and stepped back to admire the effect.

The tower bedroom was full of sunlight. His bedding was light blue – a welcome change from his usual black and hopefully a nice change from the stark white hospital linens. The air was fresh and lighted scented with flowers and spice – the perfect combination for early summer. She had taken the liberty of rearranging his beside cabinet to accommodate an array of healing potions, pain relievers, and sleeping draughts. She did not know what to expect and so she prepared for everything.

But nothing could have prepared her for the next day.

Predictably, Hermione had not slept, and at sunrise, she showered, changed into a pair of denims and a nice top, attempted to tame the mess that was her hair, and considered and dismissed the thought of makeup. Then she stood in the foyer and waited.

She did not wait long. Just after eight a.m., after she had accepted a glass of pumpkin juice from an insistent Dobby, the Keep's front doors rattled. Hermione set the glass uncertainly on the floor then, on second thought, vanished it. Her heart was somewhere in the vicinity of her throat and her stomach near her toes as the door slowly opened, revealing…

Narcissa Malfoy.

She walked through door backward, propping it open with a slim, lilac-robed hip. "Careful with his head now, darling," she said to Lucius. The Malfoy patriarch, robed in his usual black, was silent as he backed in as well, wand aloft. Levitating behind them both was Draco.

He looked dead. His skin was ashen and his hair limp. His eyes had sunken into his skull and the hollows were accentuated with dark purple bags. The only indication of life was the slow, even rise-and-fall of his chest. Hermione brought her hands to her mouth to unsuccessfully stifle a small scream. Both Narcissa and Lucius stopped in their tracks and glanced over their shoulders in almost perfect synchronicity.

"How is he?" she gasped, stepping forward. Her voice cracked and tears threatened to overflow the rims of her eyes.

"Comatose," Narcissa answered, her tone clipped and even. "Take him to the study while I prepare his room, Lucius."

"There's no need for that." Narcissa paused again to stare at her, but Hermione did not quail. "His room is ready." The older couple shared a glance that Hermione could not read and then Lucius brushed his fingers against Narcissa's hand. She could see the thin, pink scar on the matriarch's palm and gasped again, managing to stifle it this time. She clenched her own scarred palm and looked at the man who shared her mark. Narcissa's eyes burned into her, but Hermione ignored them, watching in silence as Lucius levitated Draco's body up the stairs and out of sight.

"Ms. Granger-"

"Hermione," she correctly absently, turning toward the petite blonde woman.

Narcissa's upper lip curled in distaste. "We need to have a discussion."

Hermione nodded and walked away, intending for Narcissa to follow. To Hermione's relief, she did, stiffly. She took the time and silence to collect herself. She had imagined this moment for weeks and each time it played out a little differently. In the perfect scenario, Draco was conscious, and she had the chance to talk to him alone beforehand. But life had rarely worked in her favor before. There was no reason for it to start now. The reality was that Draco was in bed, unaware and possibly dying. She would have to be her own strength. After years of self-reliance, it was a task she finally felt confident in accomplishing.

Soon, they arrived at the back part of the Keep to the rarely-used sunroom. Since this was Hermione's first time here in the summer, she had never seen the sunroom until she had passed it looking for the flower garden. It had since become one of her favorite spots. It looked out upon the wide expanse of land behind the mansion that terminated in cliff and sea. The furniture was well-made wicker and padded with light orange cushions. Though it had been bare before, Hermione requested several potted plants be arranged on the floor. Conjured flowers gave the air a light, fragrant tone. Hermione had been unable to coax any more real ones from the pitiful garden, but these did fine for now.

She took a seat and gestured to the one nearest her. Narcissa took the furthest one, positioned directly across from Hermione.

"Ms. Granger, I will not waste your time with pleasantries and so I ask that you not waste mine." A tea tray popped into existence on the table before them. Hermione had to bite her tongue to keep from offering her a cup. "My son has been grievously injured. For weeks now, he has been waiting on death's doorstep and we have been waiting for him to pass through it. Until a few days ago we – my husband, myself, and the team of Healers seeing to Draco – were sure he would not make it. We were prepared…" Her voice broke slightly. She cleared her throat. "We are _still_ prepared to lose him."

Hermione sat unmoving, waiting for her to continue. After a few minutes, Narcissa took a shallow breath.

"The _ceremony_ where the Dar- where _Voldemort_ was killed. Surely Draco told you about the consequences of that day? The union of your blood?"

"We are joined," Hermione answered simply.

Narcissa frowned. "It is much more than that, Ms. Granger," she said acidly. "Surely you felt the change? According to the tradition of our house, you are more than _joined_. You are _together_. You are _one_. Mind, body, and soul. That is what has enabled you to live so comfortably in Greece for all these years. The blood in your veins makes you a Malfoy and grants you all the rights therein."

Hermione sat back in her chair, her expression dumbstruck. Despite the dire condition of the man upstairs, she felt a stab of pain. He had promised. He had promised not to search for her. Had he known she was in Greece this whole time?

Narcissa read her expression correctly. "Did you think my husband was ignorant of the state of his holdings?" she snapped.

"No, no of course not," and she felt instantly relieved. Of course Lucius must have known. "Why didn't you tell him?"

"He requested our silence," she sneered, breaking her eye contact with Hermione and glaring out toward the sea. "You can blame his father for complying."

"Thank you." Narcissa's eyes snapped back on Hermione. "For not telling him."

"I did not do it for you!"

Hermione nodded. "All the same…"

Narcissa continued to snarl. "Being that you two are now _one_, you must understand our suspicions at your sudden arrival. For four years, you have not recognized the blood bond that ties you. Then Draco is nearly killed – may still die – and here you sit, preparing his room, keeping his house, commanding his elves… Not only recognizing the bond, the fulfilling it. Conveniently timed, don't you think?" She let her statement hang and seemed displeased by Hermione's silence. "Have you nothing to say for yourself?"

It took Hermione ten seconds to puzzle out what Narcissa was implying, but only two to be insulted by it. True, Hermione wasn't sure of her intentions yet. Draco was home, and that was a relief. He was also still unconscious, which was where her indecision struck. She could still leave and feel relatively little guilt about it. She could move away from Greece – maybe even back to England – and try to establish a new life. A world of possibility presented itself, and she didn't know if she wanted to shun it yet.

But of one thing she was absolutely certain: she was _not_ a Galleon-grubbing succubus.

Narcissa correctly read Hermione's horrified expression, but misinterpreted it. She rose to her feet. "Exposed!" she hissed triumphantly. She stared down at Hermione with cold, clear blue eyes and an intensity Hermione recognized well. "You know that you stand to inherit upon Draco's death as long as the bond is fulfilled. Our magic does not recognize time, only strength of devotion, and a witch's devotion may know no bounds when millions of Galleons are in question. Well hear me now, Ms. Granger, and listen well: I will see to it that you get not so much as a _Knut_ upon my son's death, nor a square inch of our ancestral lands. His devotion was deserving of royalty. That he chose to give it to _you_ was a terrible waste."

Frustration and anger boiled up inside of her, but Hermione managed to keep most of it contained as she slowly rose to her feet. Narcissa was slightly taller than she, but in that moment, Hermione stood eye to eye with her, unflinching.

"Hang your Galleons," she said in a hiss not very unlike Narcissa's, "and hang your land. I am interested in neither."

"Then what are you interested in, girl? Why are you here?"

"Because I _want_ to be here. And I will be until I _want_ to leave."

Then Hermione spun on her heel and left the seething blonde woman sputtering in indignation. Narcissa Malfoy had every right in the world to question Hermione, but Hermione had absolutely no obligation to withstand that abuse. The power of the act – of turning her back and refusing to answer – allowed her to stalk through the Keep with her head held high, aware but blissfully unconcerned with the angry set of eyes burrowing into the back of her skull. Defying expectations, making decisions, asserting herself as an individual and an equal… It was intoxicating.

The heady feeling lasted until she reached Draco's door. It was closed and she opened it without knocking, but stopped before stepping over the threshold. Lucius sat at Draco's bedside, looking more worn than Hermione had ever seen him. One hand rested on the bed over Draco's long, pale fingers. His thumb moved gently over his skin. The other hand covered his mouth, where Hermione knew a quavering chin hid. After a tense moment, Lucius started and stood. He dropped Draco's hand and replaced his vulnerability with a poorly-constructed mask of ambivalence.

Good breeding dictated that he greet her quietly. Hermione's cheeks flamed red as his voice cracked and faltered. In that instant, she knew she should have knocked. But she could not apologize for it, not after standing so strong against Narcissa's wrath. She had to stand against Lucius, too, even if his reaction was infinitely more pitiable than his wife's.

"I need to see him," she said clearly with a small measure of force. Lucius's grey eyes widened slightly, then narrowed again as comprehension dawned. For a moment, Hermione thought she would have to fight him, too, and felt oddly prepared for the conflict. But then he looked at Draco – pale, unmoving, so close to death – and deflated. The will to challenge or even belittle her had been stolen from him.

"Very well." Lucius looked at her closely and Hermione returned his stare evenly.

"Thank you," she replied just as quietly. Lucius stared at her a moment longer and then nodded in surrender, or perhaps even acceptance. Hermione was sure Lucius shared his wife's suspicions regarding her sudden reappearance into Draco's life, but she wondered if perhaps she could not sway him to her side sooner than she thought. Honestly, she had counted on having Narcissa's support before Lucius's, but if it were the other way around, so be it.

It was a testament to how strongly Draco's brush with death had affected him.

He looked at Draco one last time and moved past Hermione, shutting the door behind him. Hermione withdrew her wand and locked it with a series of spells – strong but not unbreakable – and warded against eavesdroppers as well. Though she doubted Lucius would listen at keyholes, Narcissa might be desperate enough to try, and Hermione did not want to be overheard. Not the first time.

She approached the bed slowly and felt the strength ebb out of her with every step. It was still unclear as to what spell had hit Draco. All anyone knew what that it was dark, complex, and involved both a physical and mental component. She drew back the sheet covering his torso and slowly unbuttoned his shirt, avoiding contact with his skin. The physical component was entirely healed. No new scars or blemishes marred his chest, just the old ones that she knew so well. The thin line running from his temple to his jaw. The thick, pale pink stripe that cut diagonally across his chest.

Hermione's fingers hovered mere centimeters above the scars. She imagined she could feel a slight tingle of recognition, like her body remembered its other half. She drew away quickly. What would happen if she touched him? Would their blood recognize the bond? Would they feel that raw surge of emotion and understanding, that at once alien and familiar _knowing_ they had shared the night she had left him? She knew the full force of their union was transmittable only by scar-on-scar contact, but his blood – their blood? – infused his body. Ran through his very skin. If she were to touch his arm, for instance, or his hand, would he recognize her? Would he awaken?

She withdrew her fingers, rebuttoning his shirt carefully. Then she replaced the sheet and took Lucius' vacated seat. She curled her hands into fists.

"I'm sorry," she whispered to him, not caring that he was cataleptic. "I'm so sorry. But I'm not ready yet."

He said nothing. She continued.

She told him of life in Greece. How beautiful it was: the summer humidity counteracted by the sweet, ocean-scented Meltemi; the vibrant colors – the verdant green of the trees, the cerulean blue of the ocean and sky, the complex gray of the ancient stone; the altitude of the _Spiti_ and the way her ears popped whenever she visited. She described the lightness of the _Spiti_ compared to the Keep, the hours she spent on the balcony reading and thinking and absorbing the sunshine, and how, despite all that, Greece never really felt like a permanent home.

She told him about the quaint coastal town and the acquaintances she made there. She told him about Homer, about the café, and the unorthodox interview that landed her the job. She told him about the magical shops in Rome. She explained to him about the different wand cores (Pegasus wing feather, minotaur tail hair, and griffon scale) and how long it had taken her to learn Greek: an entire month before she got the basics and then another six before she could hold a conversation without using a pocket guide.

She took him through a typical day – working in the café until Homer sent her home, traveling to the _Spiti_ and sunbathing on the large, private patio, swimming in the modest pool, cooking meals of increasing complexity until she could boast skills to rival Dobby's. She told him about the first and only time she had attempted to make baklava, and how she had sworn off filo dough. She chuckled as she described the view from the balcony, remarking that Malfoys must prefer rooms that overlooked large expanses of water.

She told him how lonely it made her to look out at all that ocean and imagine him one the other side of it. She wondered if he ever stared and thought of her, too. She thanked him again for keeping her wand and Amaris safe, and how she would have gone mad several times over without both.

Then she told him about the scrapbook she kept, how she looked forward to receiving the paper more than anything else in her day, how exciting and fulfilling it was to read about all the good he was going. She told him how proud she was that he had accomplished so much in so little time, how much it meant to her that he was working so hard. How much she respected him for it.

She told him her biggest regret: that it had taken an attempt on his life to bring her back to him. She was ashamed of herself. She should have been stronger, braver. More confident, less selfish.

She cried tears spawned from guilt and fear, and sobbed over his body fiercely and unashamedly until a warm hand descended on her shoulder. She startled and looked up through swollen, red-rimmed eyes, and saw Lucius.

He helped her from the chair. She could not fight even if she wanted to: her body simply lacked the will. She teetered on two feet and the Malfoy patriarch steadied her with another hand. And then naturally, almost as if it was his intention the whole time, his arms widened and Hermione found herself cradled inside them.

She collapsed against him, staining his robes with tears and not caring one bit about it as he held her. Stiffly, yes, but unflinchingly. He whispered meaningless, comforting words to her, and she believed him.

In that moment, something shifted between them. In that moment, he became the support she needed, the shade of the father she had lost.

While they never again shared the closeness they had that night, an understanding grew between them. They had witnessed each other's grief: proof that the great, stony Lucius Malfoy had a heart, and that noble Muggleborn Hermione Granger had no interest in Galleons. He accepted her presence as something that could not be changed. Sometimes, she imagined, he was even glad she was there with them to share the burden of their pain. Narcissa remained unconvinced, but her frosty nature abated somewhat. Hermione knew Lucius was responsible for this. She never found the words to thank him for it.

The months passed slowly. And, just as gradually, the Healers assigned to Draco's care trickled away until there was only one old woman with thick, white hair and a pince-nez. She stopped in once a month and, each month, was barraged with the same question.

"If he's healed, why does he not wake?" Narcissa demanded. "Why is he still comatose?"

Healer Cleary shrugged her shoulders. "His body and mind are sound. At this point, all I have is speculation."

"Speculate away."

She hesitated. "Since there is no medical reason for his coma, I believe that something else is keeping him under. Maybe the spell damaged his soul, or his heart. Maybe there is more healing going on inside than any of us can realize." She shrugged again. "He will return when he's ready. For now, just be patient."

They were.

Though Cleary assured them that Draco's condition was stable, he was rarely left alone. Sometimes all three of them sat at his bedside, still and silent. At other times it was just his parents. But Lucius seemed to have a difficult time seeing his son incapacitated and Narcissa, recognizing his unease, did what she could for him. So mostly, it was just Hermione.

She liked being alone with him. She didn't have to worry about fidgeting around Narcissa, who seemed to take it as a personal affront, and was spared the awkwardness that occasionally arose between her and Lucius. It was relaxing and the silence allowed her to think. When her thoughts became too melancholy, she read to him, mostly Muggle novels from a cache she had discovered in one of his bureaus, but a few wizarding ones as well. Sometimes she even sang to him, though never for long and never very well.

In mid July, Narcissa suggested they move Draco to other areas of the house, thinking that perhaps a change of environment would spark something in his brain and accelerate his healing. They levitated him to the balcony and enjoyed the sunshine together. They took him to the conservatory and played his favorite music. Hermione even persuaded them to visit his potions laboratory, much to Narcissa's displeasure.

Almost nightly, she transported his body to the second floor of his tower. She would lay beside him there, never touching, and just watch the stars. Surrounded by infinity, she could imagine better, less complicated times. To an outsider, it would have looked unhealthy. Unbalanced. Perhaps it was. But Hermione didn't care. This was their secret. Their _place_. She thought that there was more chance of him waking there than any other place in the Keep.

One day in late August, while Narcissa and Lucius strolled on the beach, Hermione sat vigilant at Draco's bedside. She did not have a book or a song, only silence. And, with that silence, thoughts.

Three months had passed since she arrived at the Keep, uncertain of her choice and afraid of the consequences. After first seeing Draco, she finally allowed herself to contemplate both. Disappointingly, she had reached only one conclusion.

Whatever happened next – whether she stayed at the Keep or left again – would depend upon Draco. And for anything to depend upon Draco, he would have to be awake. She brought her knees up to her chin, arranging her long, white skirt around her legs, and stared hard at his body. After observing him for so long, after listening to the healers and forming her own conclusions, Hermione thought she knew what had to be done to wake him.

She uncurled her fist, revealing her scar, and reached toward his own scarred palm. Slowly, gently, she let her hand rest against his. She felt his consciousness – the knowing, the emotion – but it was indistinct. Fuzzy. With no real power behind it.

Her face fell. She withdrew her hand and sat back in her chair, tears brimming in both eyes. She let them fall as she stared at her open, useless palm. Why had she expected it to work? It was just a theory, no more likely to work than Narcissa's idea of shuttling him from room to room. Blood magic was powerful but even that had its limits. Perhaps he was beyond her power. Perhaps he was beyond all hope.

Then, Draco sighed and – to her astonishment – swore quietly.

"After everything I did, you still managed to die," he admonished teasingly, grey eyes at once bright and sad. "I shouldn't be surprised, of course – after so long of doing what you needed to, you were bound to rebel. I just wished it would have been in some other way." He sighed again. "So how did it happen, Hermione? How did you die?"

Dazed, she shook her head. "I haven't." Her voice did not sound like her own.

Draco looked contemplative for a moment and then nodded. "Yes, perhaps it's for the best that I not know. I'm sure it would spoil the moment. Now the real question is how did I make it to heaven?"

"Draco… Draco, you're not in heaven."

He frowned. "But you're here. Obviously, this means-"

"Draco!" she interrupted, her voice high and excited. "Draco, you're not dead! You're alive! You're_ alive_!" She fell to her knees at his bedside and gripped his hand in her own, scar to scar. The tingling of energy and magic – now sharp and strong – blasted through her cells. But it did not bring pain like all the times before. Instead, there was confusion, and hope. Though the moment was faster than fleeting, she pushed back with everything she could. Reassurance and joy. Disbelief. Love.

He looked up at her with more confusion than she had ever seen, and it was an expression so comical that she couldn't help but laugh. The sound seemed to awaken something in him. His body stiffened and he looked at her as if he couldn't believe she was real.

"Hermione?" Her heart was too full for words. All she could do was nod emphatically and grip his hand even tighter, trying to make him understand what she could not articulate. "You're here?" She nodded again and Draco smiled, a smile so genuine and honest that her heart exploded in her chest.

Just as she was about to crash down with the rubble – a hasty confession almost tumbled from her lips – the Malfoys burst into the room. Hermione launched herself backward out of the chair, wrenching her hand away from his. The severed bond made her stagger two steps, but she managed to make it out of the room, down the stairs, and outside, where she took a very long walk.

She did not come back until late in the evening, when she was sure the Malfoys – _all_ the Malfoys – would be asleep.

The next week was entirely focused on Draco's recuperation. Thanks to potions and magic, it was a relatively quick process. His physical strength had mostly returned and he was as mentally sharp as ever. His magic took longer. He could cast simple spells; he had gone through the entire Standard Book of Spells, Year 1 on his second day of consciousness. Year 4 seemed to be giving him some problems, but he was persistent and very determined to be at full strength with as little downtime as possible.

Hermione received most of this information second hand. Seeing Draco conscious was wholly different from seeing his body in a bed, and interacting with him was difficult. So she avoided him, keeping their contact limited to mealtimes. More difficult than staying out of sight (because, by Merlin, the man seemed to dog her every footstep) was staying out of his tower. She missed the soft grass of the artificial field, the lilies-of-the-valley scented breeze, and the silence of space. Every night, she pressed her hand to the worn patch of paint in the corner of her room and contemplated walking through.

It was a week before she caved.

To her surprise, the bed was scrupulously made and the room empty. Though she would not blame Draco if he wanted a bit of alone time. His parents – more specifically, his mother – had hovered over him since he woke up. It would drive anyone spare, and Draco had always been independent.

She made her way up the stairs to the tower and stopped short at the entrance. Draco was there, lying on the mattress in the middle of the room. Her heart sank and she turned around, but stopped when he addressed her.

"I knew you couldn't stay away for long."

She braced her hands on the door but did not turn around. "It's my favorite spot," she said by way of explanation.

"Mine too. Thank you for sharing it with me."

Now, she did turn. "What?"

"You took me up here. And to the potions lab, and the balcony and the greenhouse. I heard everything. I thought it was all a dream. It couldn't possibly be real, you being here. And then you touched me and something clicked into place. All of a sudden, it _was_ real. You were real."

"That's why you stayed under?"

"It wasn't a conscious decision. But then-"

"You didn't really want to wake up, either."

"You were gone," he said hollowly. "Why would I want to be somewhere you're not?"

They were silent for a while. Hermione lingered in the doorway. Draco sat on the mattress with his head down, staring at his hands. He clenched them into fists.

"Do you want to take a walk?"

"Are you ready for that? It's only been a few days…"

"You sound like my mother," he half-joked, half-sneered. "I never knew she could be so officious."

Hermione bit back a smile. "She just wants what's best for you."

"You try telling her that what's best for me is space," he deadpanned. Her smile broke through. "Please, come with me. I… I still need to show you something." The way his voice dropped made the hairs on the back of Hermione's neck stand on end. She nodded, not trusting herself to speak, and led the way down the tower and out of the Keep.

The wind gusted as they stepped into the night. Leaves shook and trembled, the surf crashed faintly, insects chirped and thrummed. An owl hooted. A wolf howled. Hermione paused and closed her eyes. She smelled Greece in the air, and the warmth reminded her of the Meltemi. Of change. She inhaled deeply. It would happen again, and it would keep happening. All she could do was adapt. She opened her eyes to find Draco staring intently at her, slightly agape. She blushed, thankful for the darkness, but thought he might have seen her pink cheeks anyway.

"Where are we going?" she asked him, both to break the tense silence and to satisfy curiosity.

"The forest," was his succinct answer. Her breath caught in her lungs and her legs did not move though he walked forward.

_The forest_.

The seat of so many unanswered questions. The font of so much foreboding and fear. She stared at the wall of trees and felt its tug, just as insistent and frightening as the first time. But she was stronger now. She could resist it, if she tried. And she was trying. Hard.

Draco's hand on her arm made her jump. "I know what you're doing," he said quietly. "Don't."

"It's dangerous," she parroted. He winced.

"It was, but not anymore."

He turned and walked toward the forest again, not waiting for her. Hermione almost wished he had dragged her with him. Choosing was impossible; that she had been given a choice at all was incredible. She took a deep breath.

The wind gusted.

She caught up to him easily at the edge of the wood. "Part of me hoped you wouldn't come," he said quietly. "But I you need to. Please, don't…" He trailed off and Hermione knew he wasn't going to continue. His hand drifted toward hers and she almost let him take it, but they both seemed to decide better of it at the last moment. Without another word, they walked into the darkness together.

The light of their wands threw eerie, uneven shadows, creating monsters and demons in the dark. There was no natural trail, but the wood groaned and shifted around them to clear a path. Deeper and deeper, swallowed by inky blackness. A black so deep that it stole the sound of the surf and wind, quieting even the insects. Their feet snapping twigs on the forest floor was the only sign of life, and even that seemed too ominous to count.

For ten minutes they walked but they may have well been standing still: the forest did not change. Then, strangely, a tree took a shape she recognized. A familiar stump rotted near an algae-covered pond. A haunting gnarl to her right looked like a melting face. They were memories, but vague ones, like she had only seen them in a dream or a photograph.

Or a Pensieve.

The tree trunks terminated suddenly and the darkness evaporated. A wide, sorrowful clearing spread before them. It was perfectly round – unnaturally so – and in the middle of it grew a Hawthorn tree taller and wider than any tree had a right to be. A thick vine twined around and up it, reaching toward the heavens. The pull on her heart and mind twitched a final time, then fluttered away.

This was what the forest had wanted her to see, what the magic had pulled her toward, and what Draco had shielded her from.

A flashback that was not her own assaulted her memory. A circle of figures clothed in black, ringing a mass grave. Fiery orange hair, stained brown with dirt and dried blood. A pair of round, black-rimmed spectacles, recognizable though perched before lifeless jade green eyes. The bodies of her parents, carelessly added to the heap. Afterthoughts.

She stood before the grave marker, trembling and sobbing and unaware that she had even moved. One hand rested on the tree trunk and the other upon the vine. A surge of magic – almost bordering awareness – unsettled her, and she fell to her knees.

Draco was close behind her, but not close enough to touch.

"There was never a right time," he whispered, his voice thick with grief. "I'm so sorry, Hermione." Then he left the clearing, giving her space and peace, allowing her to grieve.

She did not know how long it took her to stop crying. She did not know the process by which she made peace with the world all over again. She did not know where the strength came from that allowed her to get to her feet and walk away from the grave.

But she did know that a new day was slowly banishing the night. She did know her way out of the forest, despite the long, potentially circuitous path she took to reach its center. She did know, once she emerged from the wall of trees, what brought her to the edge of the cliff.

Draco stood almost exactly where she had, toes hanging over the edge and staring out at the still-dark horizon. She approached him cautiously, but did not bother to stay silent. The last thing she wanted to do was surprise him. Finally, she reached his side and grabbed a fistful of his shirt. Now, if he did anything stupid, he would do it with her in tow.

He was apparently thinking the same way. "Why don't you just let me go?" he muttered. "It would be so much easier that way."

"You're wrong. Is it really so bad, Draco?"

She looked up into his face and saw his silent tears.

"Of course it is. Hermione, I've destroyed you. I've destroyed _everything_."

"Voldemort destroyed everything," she corrected quietly. "You've done so much more than that. I've been reading the Prophet, you know. Every day. You're fixing it, just like you said you would."

"You asked me to."

"We both know you would've done it anyway. You're different, Draco. You've changed." He laughed derisively again, and it angered her. "Can you not see it? Do you really not know?"

"What I know," he growled, "is that change is an illusion, and I've been fooling myself for too long."

"You're wrong."

"Am I? I've known you for almost fourteen years, Hermione. For the first six, I hated you and for the next three, I almost killed you. Those aren't the actions of a redeemed man. Those are the actions of a monster."

"What about the final four years? What did you do for those?"

Draco scowled and turned away from her. "Why did you come back?"

Hermione frowned but allowed the evasion. "Because I believe you _have_ changed. You've taken responsibility. You've helped so many people, and seeing that has helped me. I've…" she trailed off, uncertain of how to phrase just what she had done. "I think I've gained perspective. When I saw you get cursed, something in me just snapped. I didn't feel angry or justified. I was scared for you, and scared for myself. I think I always knew I would have to come back here. That we had unfinished business."

"The forest."

"I had forgotten about that, quite honestly. So much else had happened. But thank you." He glanced at her quizzically from the corner of his eye. "For respecting them. For showing them to me."

"I wanted to do it so much sooner," he breathed. "There was just never the time."

She chuckled wryly. "There wasn't, was there? How would I have been able to do half of what you needed me to knowing what you had kept safe for so long?"

"Don't defend it," he said sternly. "If it weren't for me, none of this would have happened. Everything would be different. You would be happy and I would be…"

"Miserable?" she prompted. "Seems to me that you already are."

"It's what I deserve."

His self-loathing was starting to wear upon her. "Is there anything I can say?"

"No," was his simple answer. His voice shook, betraying his torment. "There's nothing. And now that our business is finished, you can go."

Four years ago, this rejection might have driven a dagger through the remnants of Hermione's heart. Four years ago, she would have obeyed him without question, as she had done for almost three years before that.

But this was not four years ago.

This was four years _later_.

Now, she wasn't the least bit rebuffed. Now, she recognized his rejection as the last defense of a man desperate to do what he thought was right.

And now, she made her own choices.

"I'm not leaving."

This got his attention and, finally, he looked at her, incredulity ruling his face. "What?"

"I'm not leaving," she repeated, more firmly this time. "I tried that once. I thought that, if I left, I might be able to make peace with what happened to me. I thought I'd be able to move on with my life."

"Thought you'd be able to forget me."

"No, and don't put words into my mouth! I left because I thought it would help me. And it did. I'm better, Draco. Not perfect – never perfect – but better."

"Then why did you come back? If you're not okay, why did you come back?" He was nearly shouting now, though he finally stepped back from the edge.

"Because I've done as much as I can on my own. I need you, Draco. _You_ are my unfinished business, not the forest."

He took several more steps backward, wrenching himself away from her. "I don't want you to be here because you feel some sort of obligation to me! I don't need your pity, Hermione, and I don't want it!"

She had reached the end of her tether and what had been a rational discussion suddenly turned into a full-blown argument.

"Have you listened to nothing that I've said, you self-absorbed fool? I'm here because I bloody well _want_ to be! I'm here because _I_ need _you_! And, quite honestly, the more I hear, the more I think that you need me too!"

"Bullshite. How the hell could you need me after all I've done to you?"

"The last four years, you idiot! Look at what you have done in the last four years! You've respected my wishes: you said you wouldn't look for me and you kept your word! I asked you to take responsibility and you have! You confessed, you went to court, you paid your debt – as did the other Resilience members – and you've taken critical steps to rehabilitate Wizard and Muggle society! That means something to me, Draco, and if you can't figure out why that's important, then you don't deserve credit for half of what you've accomplished!"

"Well, if I've already done everything you've asked, what more could there be? What more could I possibly do for you?"

"Forgive yourself!" she screamed. Draco fell silent and turned on his heel, stalking back toward the Keep. She followed him just as swiftly and grabbed his arm, yanking him to a stop. "I can't move past this if I know you're still agonizing over it!" she yelled, turning him to face her. "I can't live knowing that you're hurting!"

"You seemed to be doing alright for four years!"

"I was not alright!" She had never admitted it aloud before, and her heart felt like lead. "I was frightened and confused and bitter and alone! Getting up every morning was a trial, but going to sleep was even worse for what I saw in my dreams! Nothing about me has been alright, Draco, but now it has a chance to be and damned if I'm going to let it pass! And I know you feel the same as I do! You need to let go, just like I do. It's going to kill us otherwise."

"I _can't_," he growled. "I can't just _let it go_. I deserve this, Hermione. What I did to you was unforgiveable."

"What if I said I forgave you?"

"You'd be lying."

"And if I wasn't?"

He scoffed. "We both know you don't. It takes longer than four years to get past what I did to you. You need to leave again, go back to Greece or where ever, and get better."

"I can't," she growled right back. "Not without you. Because I'm stuck too, Draco. I'm just as trapped as you are."

"Who says I'm trapped?"

"I do and I know I'm right. I can see it in your eyes. You feel stuck. Like you're running without moving. And I am too. I've gone as far as I can on my own. But we've been shaped together, Draco. We're twisted pieces to the same puzzle, and I can't put my life together unless you're in it too."

"I don't want your pity," he repeated sternly.

"You ridiculous man," she spat. "I don't pity you! I love you! I've always loved you! It's never been easy, or even right, but it's something I can't change. And I don't think either of us can live a truly whole life without the other. Who else could comprehend what's happened to us? Who else could understand?"

"I don't want you here because you feel like you can't be anywhere else!"

"I'm here because I _want_ to be! Because I _need_ to be! Merlin, how many times do I have to say it? I want to be with you. I want to grow with you. I want to keep trying and, damn it, I want to succeed. I want to help you! I want to change the world!"

"How do I know?" he asked, his voice trembling. "How do I know you won't just leave again?"

"This is how!" She launched herself at him and clasped his hand. The force of their contact nearly knocked her off her feet. Intensity and understanding rocketed through her. His confusion and guilt, his wariness and fear, and his hope. All she had was determination and she focused on that certainty. What was no more than a split second felt more like a decade. The flash was gone, leaving them both breathless and exhilarated.

Draco dropped her hand and took a step backward. He looked astounded. "It's true."

Hermione huffed in annoyance. "You should have never doubted in the first place."

"I'm sorry."

"I know."

"I'll never deserve you."

"No more of that. You keep talking about what you deserve. You deserve to be happy, Draco. You deserve to _live_, not to simply survive."

"I'm… I'm a wreck, Hermione. I'm ruined. I don't know-"

She pressed her palm into his again. The onslaught stole her breath. When she next inhaled, she was leaning against his chest, and his arm was wrapped around her waist.

"Let me stay," she ordered him breathlessly. "Let me help you. Let me help myself."

His breath came in hot puffs against her hair. "Yes," he whispered. "Anything. Anything for you."

"For _us_," she murmured.

"It's not going to be easy," he whispered.

"I don't want it to be."

He shook his head in amazement, but smiled. She met his eyes – shining silver eyes that drank her in, eyes that no longer looked infinitely troubled – and smiled too. She rested her head against his chest and he held her tighter.

They stood together for a long time, bathed in eternity, two souls with one heartbeat and one future, which stretched out before them. It was not a path paved in gold, nor was it a straight course to happily ever after, but it was one which they would walk together, come what may.

Dawn had finally broken, and it was beautiful.

_The End_


End file.
